


The Lords of Furya

by E_J_Frost



Series: Lords of Furya [2]
Category: Pitch Black (2000), The Chronicles of Riddick (2004), The Chronicles of Riddick Series
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-11 00:04:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 31
Words: 176,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1166216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/E_J_Frost/pseuds/E_J_Frost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Her Lord Marshal's Right Hand."</p><p>The Lord Marshal and his entourage leave the Necromonger armada to start a colony on Furya.  Can they make a home on this “brave new world,” or will it be the same story for Riddick?</p><p>Legal disclaimer: The characters who appear in "Pitch Black" and “The Chronicles of Riddick” belong to Universal Studios and their other various copyright owners.  I make no claim on them and do not intend to profit from the use of them in this work of fiction.  All other characters and settings are mine; kindly seek my permission if you plan to use them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Three days.

The blink of an eye in the span of a life, three days.

Except when waiting.  As I am waiting.

Three days I’ve waited and watched the great lens in the command center.  Watched the green and growing world revolving beneath the ship.

When the Beast’s skimmer has been in range to transmit, I’ve seen what he sees.  Shapes large and small roaming through mammoth greenery.  I recognize few of the plants, and fewer of the creatures.  An alien world, this place I will call home.

This _Furya_.

A ruined world.  The greenery grows high over the remains of cities, the only sign that men once ruled this world.

And the grave fields.  Kilometer upon kilometer of graves.

I pray he does not choose a settlement site nearby.

 

A beeping wakens me from a doze.  I lift my head from my arms blearily and focus on the great lens in front of me.  The forbidding black exterior of the dreadnought ripples across the curved surface.

 _Liaden_.

His thought tickles down my spine.  Goosebumps rise on my skin.  I shiver, but not with cold.  He’s back, close enough that the Collar that links us can give me his thoughts again.  How I’ve missed hearing his voice in my mind while he’s been out of range.

_You comin’ to meet me?_

_Oh, yes._

I rise, feeling the stiffness in my back and legs from sitting so long in one position.  Shedding the robe I’ve worn while waiting, I run for the docking bay.

 

I wait in the shadows of the inner airlock while his skimmer rises through the ship’s external membrane in a burst of black ash.  A gust of frigid stratospheric air blows through the docking bay, raising goosebumps across my exposed skin, whipping my hair around me.  I brush my hair back impatiently, waiting, wanting that first sight of him.

The skimmer settles into its docking cradle with a pneumatic sigh.  I cannot see the flight deck from where I stand, but I know, with that subcutaneous awareness that I have of him, that he’s there, finishing the last of the docking checks.  Now he’s flipping off his flight harness and striding through the ship to the aft ramp.  Although he hasn’t seen me as he’s landed, he knows where I am.  Knows I’m waiting for him.

I still hope to surprise him.

The ramp cycles open with a hiss and he rides it down, his massive shape silhouetted by the ship’s landing lights, his silver eyes searching the gloom.  I step out of the shadows and let the light slide over my bare skin.

I feel his breath catch in his chest.

He strides toward me, raw need etched into the lines of his face, and catches me up against him.  I wind my arms around his neck, my legs around his hips, and inhale the scent of him.  Sweat.  Leather.  And underneath, that male musk that always stirs me.

 _Riddick_.

I expect him to stop now that he has me, but he keeps moving, palming open the airlock, striding through despite the fact that he’s carrying my full weight, and closing it behind us.

“Lock engaged,” the ship’s disembodied female voice says.

I have a moment to wonder why he’s engaged the lock.  Then all I can think about is his embrace as he pushes me against the corridor wall and his mouth comes down on mine.  I can feel the need roaring through him, but his kisses are soft.  Gentle brushes of his lips and tongue.  The lightest scrape of teeth.  The heat of his mouth sears, as does the need he keeps in check.

Oh, those soft, searing kisses.

“I’ve missed you,” I whisper into his mouth.

He does not need me to say it.  My heart and mind are open to him; he knows exactly what I’m feeling.  But he likes to hear it.  As he likes to hear me say other things, which he’ll demand shortly, once he’s given us both release.

“Yeah?” he says, pulling back so he can look into my eyes.  “How much?”

I smile at the naked need on his face, at the tremor that runs through the hard muscles of his arms and chest, supporting me against the wall.  Perhaps he has missed me a little, too.

“A very great deal,” I whisper.

“Show me,” he commands, and I do, running my hands over his rough velvet scalp, his corded shoulders, touching him everywhere I can reach, while I press my mouth to his, tugging his full lower lip between my teeth and biting playfully.

“Liaden.”  His rich voice reaches down inside me, tightens that part of me that already craves his deep touch.

He lifts me suddenly, pushing me up the tiled wall.  When his face is level with my breasts, he stops.  His gaze licks over my skin, and then his mouth closes on me.

My head lolls back against the wall and I try to steady myself against his shoulders, but my world is swimming, swirling, drowning.  His hot mouth, pinching pressure as he sucks, the edge of his teeth, and the wild delight that shoots from my captured breast down into my belly.

With a final bite, he releases my breast and lifts me higher.  I curl over him, stroking his stubbled scalp as he holds me over his head.  His strength is a marvel, and makes my blood heat further.  But what is he doing?

He kisses the hard mound of my stomach, presses his cheek against it for a moment.  His tenderness sucks the air out of my lungs.

Then he lowers me, letting me slide down between the cold tile behind and the hot flesh in front.  I wrap my arms around his neck as he brings us back face-to-face.  His mouth brushes mine, but I barely feel his kiss as he opens me with his thumb and rubs his silken, heated hardness against me.

“Ohhh . . . yes.”

I feel him smile against my mouth, see the smile reach those beautiful silver eyes, and then I am lost as he pushes inside me.

“Feel me, Liaden.”

I do.  How can I feel anything else?  He penetrates me slowly, probing and withdrawing, making room for himself.  It’s more difficult now.  The baby takes up some of the room he used to occupy inside me.  But he never rushes.  He simply moves in and out, a little more, a little deeper each time, until I can take him fully.

When he’s seated in me, he shifts, his hands taking a firm grip on my buttocks, widening his stance.  Only then does he begin to thrust, a slow, coordinated rolling of his stomach and back and hips that drives him all the way to my core.  So deep in this position.  So sweet.  I throw my head back and howl with the wild delight that shafts through me, driven by his insistent rhythm.

“Look at me,” he growls, claiming, as he always does, the right to watch the pleasure he gives me.

And I let him, looking into his quicksilver eyes and letting him see the joy and frantic yearning he raises in me.  My hands scrabble across his shoulders, trying to pull him closer, deeper, to satisfy the longing that’s building, building.  With an impossibly deep rumble, he gives me what I need, pounding his body into mine, throwing me over the edge, into a shuddering, trembling release that rockets through me and leaves me shaking in his arms long after it is over.

He holds me tightly, his arm around my hips, supporting me away from the wall.  With his other hand, he strokes my hair, over and over, while our breathing slows.

He nuzzles my hair, tickles the curve of my ear, before he whispers, deep and soft, “Tell me.”

“I love you.”

He chuckles and shifts, rocking in me slightly, reminding me of his continued possession.  “Still?”

“Always.”  I sigh and hold him as tight as I can.  My strength is nothing compared to his, but I hope he can feel the ferocity with which I wrap my arms around him.

He chuckles again and rubs his face in my hair.  “So, maybe you missed me some.”

“I missed you more than I could have imagined,” I tell him truthfully.  This is the first time we have been separated for more than a few hours, and I missed him so much it was a constant, physical pain.  Burrowing my face into his collar, burying myself in his skin, I relax into the deep comfort of having him back in my arms.

“You can show me again in a while.  You gotta get dressed first.”

My eyes open.  Why does he want me dressed?

“We got company.”

Shock stiffens me.  “Company?”

He withdraws from me and lowers me slowly to the ground but doesn’t release me.  He holds me tightly to his chest, stroking my hair.  “They wanna meet you.  Then we’re goin’ to bed, you an’ me.”

“Who-who are they?”  I stammer.

“Furyans.”

Living Furyans?  “I thought Furya was a dead planet.”

“Guess not.”

“But—”

He releases me with obvious reluctance, and I can feel the restraint he exercises, not to gather me immediately back into his arms.

“Ask me later.  We kept them waitin’ long enough.”

“Oh, no.”  My cheeks flame.  Surely not.  “Where are they?”

“On the ship.”

“On . . . your ship?  They’ve been waiting on your ship while we—?”

He grins, a wholly male, predatory expression.  “They can get used to that kinda waitin’.”

I shake my head in horror.  He’s made them wait on his skimmer while we made love in the hallway?!  What will they think?

“An’ Liaden,” he says, his voice suddenly full of wicked amusement.  “Wear the pants.”

I push away.  I can’t believe he’s made guests wait on his ship during our reunion.

His chuckle sounds low behind me as I hurry toward our chamber.

I briefly consider pulling on one of my old gray court dresses, just to spite him.  But I have not worn them in months, and doubtless they would no longer fit, given the changes pregnancy has wrought in my shape.  Gritting my teeth, I pull on one of the outfits the Beast had the Weavers make for me before we parted from the armada.

The low-slung scalecloth pants cling to my hips and legs.  They leave little room for speculation about the shape underneath.  Their immodesty would have shocked me before I met the Beast.  But I’ve grown used to his desire to flaunt me, and these are not the most revealing things he’s had me wear.  At least the top covers most of my chest, even if it leaves my belly and all of my back exposed.  I work my fingers into the half gloves at the end of the sleeves carefully, not wanting to disturb the row of nightshade darts that run from wrist to elbow, their heads protruding from the fabric of the sleeve like tiny jewels.  They could be decorations, like the fringe of jet beads along the hem of the top.  But they’re not.  They’re part of my arsenal of weapons.

I pull back my hair and fasten it at the nape of my neck with the Rift clasp.  This is the first time I’ve worn it since we left the Armada.  The weight of it surprises me.  Was it always so heavy?

There is no place for my deathshead pins in this outfit, a fact I bemoaned to the Beast when he gave it to me.  He merely smiled, and carried me to bed.

My dagger, Hannelore, needs no special hiding place in my clothes.  I wear her openly.  The Beast gave her to me in front of the entire court and all know I carry her.  But this is the first time I’ve worn her in months.  Her golden chain will no longer fit around my swollen middle.  I have to fasten her low around my hips.

Disgusted, I glance at my dresser mirror.

My reflection brings a smile to my face.  There can be no mistaking my pregnancy.  As the Beast intended when he had the outfit made, my belly is boldly bared.  The tight pants and top reveal the new roundness of my hips and breasts.  The Beast will not be disappointed with the effect he has created.

I wonder if he plans to have me wear this when we wake our sleepers.  That will shock them.

Shaking my head ruefully, I head down to the docking bay.

On the way through our chambers, I open the door to the bath, where I’ve shut Ctyren to keep him from intruding on my reunion with the Beast.  The lupinarus leaps out, growling at his confinement, his scales flushed red.  Crouching, he sniffs at me.  Then he jumps up, yelping with delight.

Doubtless, he can smell the Beast on me.

“Come on.  Let’s find your master.”

The cub bounds ahead of me, racing down the corridors, pausing only to test the air and bark at me when I follow too slowly to suit his lupine sensibilities.  I put a hand over Hannelore’s sheath to keep her from bouncing against my thigh as I hurry after him.

And so, out of breath and trailing a yelping hellhound, I arrive in the landing bay to greet the Furyans.

 

They stand in a rough circle around the Beast.  Eight of them.  More than I expected.  Men and women.  They wear a variety of garb, much of it leather, which does not surprise me, given the Beast’s affinity for it.  They wear it well, as he does, and it shows off the caramel shades of their skin, so like his.  Several of them wear weapons, which should not surprise me, either, given that the Beast never goes anywhere unarmed.

He fits into the group in other ways, as well.  Ways that I did not expect.  Ways that make my chest tighten.  These are _his_ people.  He belongs among them.  And I am the outsider.

Then he turns and his eyes find me.  Emotion blazes through the crucible of his gaze.  Emotion that he never lets show on his face.  I may be an outsider, but I am not unwanted.

_Come to me, Liaden._

I cross the echoing space quickly and take the hand he holds out to me.

He tucks me against his side, with his arm around my back, and turns me toward the group.

One of the women immediately steps forward.  She’s tall, like the Beast, and as beautiful as a sunset.  She wears white: high boots, a short skirt that shows off her slender legs, a jeweled vest that plunges to reveal mocha cleavage.  White weaves through her hair, ribbons and small gems worked into a hundred tiny braids that sweep down her back.  Brown eyes flecked with amber flick over me, dropping to my belly and rising to meet my eyes.  Heat ripples off her, even at a distance, reminding me of the heat that often emanates from the Beast.

She stares at me, and her gaze says unequivocally that she finds me wanting.

My Collar flares, a blue-white explosion of light that ripples out of my skin and blasts over the Furyans, flapping hair and clothes in its wake.  Ctyren presses so tightly against my legs that I can feel each of his scales.  He gives a low growl.

With one hand I try to soothe the lupinarus cub, while with the other, I clap my top against my neck to dim the Collar’s glow.  “Forgive me,” I mutter, unsure of whom I’m speaking to.  “It hasn’t done that in . . .”

“Months,” the Beast finishes for me.

I look up into his eyes, worried, but find no censure there.  The corners of his eyes crinkle.  His unsmile, which he does for no one but me.

I smile back, reassured, and look once more at the woman before us.

She looks a little less arrogant.  A little less sure that I am worthy of her contempt.  What have I done to earn her disdain in so short a time time?

“I am Shirah,” she says.  Her voice is like the Beast’s too.  Warm honey to the ear.  “Guardian of Furya.  Bride of the Furyor.”

Something about the way she says the name sends a shudder down my spine, despite her blast-furnace heat and the warmth of the two bodies pressed against mine.  “The Furyor?” I ask.

Her lion eyes flick over me again and then rise to the man beside me.

I turn my head, following her gaze.  “You—?”

“That’s not decided yet,” he says.  But he doesn’t meet my eyes; he stares back at Shirah.  The muscles in his jaw work, and I feel his anger bubble up through my Collar.  He doesn’t want me to hear about this, not yet.

A worm of worry coils in my stomach.

“I’m Elkie.”  Another woman steps forward, holding her golden hand out to me.  “I’m no one’s bride.”

I meet her eyes, hazel and full of sardonic laughter.  Smiling tentatively, I reach out of the Beast’s embrace to shake her hand.  Her hand is firm and warm in mine.

I expect her to step back now that our introduction is over, but these Furyans seem to have no sense of personal space.  She stands immobile, watching me, thumbs hooked in her gun belt, while the others crowd closer, introducing themselves and shaking my hand.

Two immediately stand out to me.  They do not belong amongst this group of tall, bronzed Furyans.  No more than I do.  One of them, a small, gray whippet of a man, barely brushes my hand with his before falling back behind Elkie.  The other, as large as any of the Furyans but without their muscularity, crushes my hand in his as he says “ImInkerpleasedtameetcha,” all in one breath.

I nod and smile, trying to take everything in.  I have been trained to observe closely, to watch for small signs of the ever-present threat to the man I protect.  But three months of solitude with the Beast – away from the court and any who might try to harm him – have robbed me of the habit.  I am overwhelmed by even this limited number of strangers.

And I am still unsettled from my introduction to Shirah.

As the last of the Furyans, an older man with grey dreadlocks down to his waist, shakes my hand, I glance back at her.  She stands less than a meter away, her gaze still locked on the Beast.  He ignores her now, watching me with a small smile.  But he must be aware of her scrutiny.

“You’ll meet the others later,” he says.

There are _more_?  My head spins.

“How have you all survived?” I ask hesitantly, of all of them and no one in particular.

Elkie laughs, showing white teeth.  But it is Shirah who answers.

“Those I lead live underground.  In tunnels.  Where it is safe.  And cool.”

I nod.  I have studied Furya during the weeks we have traveled and I know that it is a much hotter world than any I have lived on.  After the perpetual chill of the Basilica, it will be a shock.

“I survive any way I can, darlin’,” Elkie says.

“Elkie’s a merc,” the Beast says.  His tone is soft, but the menace is clear.  I shiver involuntarily.  Perhaps I have misjudged her.

“A mercenary?  On Furya?”  I ask hesitantly.

“Thelriss system most recently,” Elkie responds, grinning at the Beast.  “Came home when I heard the news.”

I glance up at the Beast.  “News?”

The muscle in his jaw works again, and I can feel that simmer of anger.  “That the Furyor had returned.”

I swallow hard against the dread in my throat.

“What is the Furyor?”  I ask, my voice small and reedy amongst the Furyans’ liquid tones.

 _We’ll talk about it later_ , he says into my mind, and his mental voice brooks no argument, either.

The Beast’s arm tightens around me and he rubs his hand up and down my arm.  “Now you’ve all met ‘er,” he says, his gravel baritone just above a growl.  “Let’s eat.”

Without ceremony, he turns away from the group, dragging me with him, and stalks toward the ship’s galley.

 

The huge dining hall can seat several hundred legionnaires.  But it has only hosted the two of us for months, and then only when we chose to eat outside our bedchamber.  I hurry to set out plates and utensils for our guests, while they program their selections into the hulking recyclers designed to feed the Legion Vast.

The Beast joins me first, carrying two trenchers.  He sets them down side by side and drags the place-setting I usually use around next to his.  Normally we sit facing each other across the table, but I am glad of this change of routine.  The comfort of having him beside me is welcome.

The older man who introduced himself last, Cawl, sits down across from me.  Although of advancing years, he is still physically imposing.  A hide vest punctuates broad expanses of chest and shoulders.  The skin it frames is wrinkled and dry, but the muscle underneath looks solid.  Brown eyes so dark they’re almost black look out at me from beneath shaggy gray brows.

“So you’re one of ‘em,” he says to me.  His voice is almost as deep as the Beast’s.

One of what?

“A Necromonger,” the Beast says from beside me as he transfers food from the trenchers he’s brought to my plate.  I glance down to see what he’s gotten me, and find him loading my plate with protein.  I give him a wry smile before I answer Cawl.

“Yes, I’m a Necromonger.”

I wait tensely for his response.  Believing there were no native Furyans left, I hadn’t thought about how we might be received.  How will these survivors view the return of those who destroyed their homeworld?

Cawl places one huge elbow on the table and deliberately sets his bristly chin on his fist.  “Maybe you were.  I see those things on your neck.  But you ain’t no more.  You smell different.  What’re you?”

I glance at the Beast for support, unsure of what the old man is asking.

“She was Daixian,” the Beast says, chewing a mouthful of ersatz eggs.  “Now she’s mine.”

“Down, boy,” Cawl growls.  “We can all see that.”

Elkie joins us, sitting down, unexpectedly, to my right.  At the head of the table.  She grins cheerfully as she begins eating directly from her trencher with her fingers.

“Daixian.  Doesn’t that mean you’re going to carve up that sprog when it’s born?”  She nods at my belly, the white crest of her hair bobbing.  Her grin never falters.  “Sacrifice it to Daia?”

Despite her trade and her bizarre sense of humor, I cannot help but smile at her.  “Xia.  Even amongst the most devout Daixians, that practice has gone out of favor.  And I am not that devout.”

“Good thing.”  Her grin widens into a white beam.  “I love kids.  You gonna have a load?”

I glance at the Beast uncertainly.  He has always seemed pleased with my pregnancy, but we’ve never discussed having _more_.

“None of your business,” he says to Elkie, but there is no menace to his tone now.

 _I like her_ , I think, directing my thought so he can hear me clearly in his head.  My Collar links our minds, but only as much as he allows, and he does not give me free reign in his mind.  He feeds me feelings, impressions, memories sometimes, but rarely do we speak directly into each other’s minds.

 _Don’t get too chummy_ , he responds, his forehead furrowing with effort.  _She’s still a merc_.

Disheartened, I turn my attention back to my food.

The arrival of Shirah, and the huge man who introduced himself as “the Guardian’s Guardian,” distracts me.  They sit down on Cawl’s far side, with Shirah facing the Beast.  Her Guardian, Callum, sets a trencher down in front of her, unwraps her utensils and hands them to her one by one, as solicitous of her as the Beast is of me.

I drop my gaze back to my food.  I need see no more to know the tragedy lying behind Callum’s tender gestures.  He loves the woman he guards.  And she does not see him.

“So where’re all these others Riddick told us about?”  Elkie asks, breaking into my reverie.

I glance up and open my mouth to tell her of our sleeping cargo, but then think better of it.  What if these Furyans do not welcome our arrival?  What if they’ve come not to greet us, but to do the twelve hundred that sleep peacefully in the decks below some mischief?

“They’re around,” the Beast says.  “You’ll meet ‘em tomorrow.”

I lean into him.  He must share some of my concern.  But what does he feel?  He’s Furyan.  Like them.  But he is also the Lord Marshal of the Necromongers.  No matter that he abdicated his throne and sent the bulk of the Armada on to the UnderVerse.  He’s lord and leader to the twelve hundred that sleep below.

I have never felt the dichotomy, the strangeness, of a Furyan on the throne of the Necromongers, more keenly than now, sitting amongst this small group of his people.

He runs his fingers up the metal ridge of the Collar imbedded in my spine.  “Eat, Liaden.”

The eggs and soyu sausage he’s brought me are ash in my mouth, all flavor leeched out of them by concern.  But because he is also my lord, I eat as he commands.

The Furyans’ liquid tones flow over and around me while I force down my food.  Elkie questions Cawl about events unfamiliar to me.  Her queries earn her sharp growls in reply.  She seems wholly undeterred, and her grin never dims, even when she says, “I wonder if you ever mopped up somewhere Riddick was locked down.  Ursa Luna?  Butcher Bay?”

“You got me confused with Hardy, girl,” the old man rumbles and I glance down the table, trying to remember which of the other men is Hardy.

Beside me, the Beast’s head snaps up.  Heat pours off him in a wave and the slow burn of anger simmering through my Collar becomes a roiling boil.

“That better be no more’n polite interest,” he says, soft and low.  But the contained rage in his tone makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.  I see the faint reflection of blue-white light play across the caramel skins around me as his anger ignites my Collar.  I press my hand to my neckline.

Elkie’s grin curls mischievously.  “Worried, Big Evil?  Don’t be.  I never came lookin’ for you.  I just listened to the rumors, like any good wildcatter.  An’ I got no interest in you now, darlin’.  You ain’t my type.  ‘Sides, seems to me you’re spoken for.”  Her eyes twinkle at me.

Still having trouble following this odd conversation, but wanting to restore some measure of peace, I ask, “What sort of person did you hunt?”

“Hackers,” interjects the lanky Inker from the Beast’s other side.  “Hyperterrorists.  I tracked ‘em and Elkie nabbed ‘em.”

“ _We_ ,” the gray man, Bengt, says.  “Anyone would think you were the only one who did any work, Ink.”

I nod as pieces begin to fit together inside my head.  Inker and Bengt aren’t Furyans.  They’re Elkie’s crew.  They’re here because of her.  What I saw as a cohesive group of Furyans fragments into a collection of individuals, each with their own drives and desires.

There can be little question of the desires of the woman who speaks next.  “You didn’t answer her, Riddick.  Are you spoken for?”

He turns his head slowly from looking down the table at Elkie’s crewmates to regard Shirah.  “Told you I was.”

The worm of doubt in my stomach dissolves.

“You said you already had a woman.  That’s a different thing.”

“Four, in point of fact,” I say, taking a mouthful of sausage suddenly turned savory.

Shirah’s gaze snaps to me.  “What?”

“Liaden—” the Beast murmurs warningly.

“There are four of us who have the honor of serving him.”

“Are you all up the duff?”  Elkie asks cheerfully.

I grin at her.  “No, just me.  So far.”

“Liaden—”  A more forceful warning growl, and this time I heed it.  He may not have told the Furyans about his Concubines for a good reason.

Perhaps he hasn’t even told them that he is the Lord Marshal.

“And this is the reason you refuse your birthright?”  Shirah glares at the Beast.  “Because of four trollops from the race that destroyed your world?”

I lift an eyebrow at _trollop_ , but keep my mouth firmly closed.

“Thought we’d finished this conversation,” he says.

If Shirah knew him as well as I do, she’d hear the cold finality in his tone, and know that anything further she has to say on this subject is a waste of breath.

“It will never be finished until you take the place that is rightfully—”

She clearly doesn’t know him as well as I do.

“I _said_ I wasn’t interested.”  Now it is a growl, and I put my arm tentatively around his waist.  I don’t want to get in his way if he plans to face off against her now.  But he seemed to be sidestepping a confrontation earlier, and perhaps my touch will remind him of that restraint.

He tilts his head towards me.  “Yeah?”

I lay my head against his shoulder and look up at him through the curtain of my bangs.  “I’ve been waiting for you for days.”

The corner of his mouth quirks.  He knows a ruse when he sees one.  Especially from me.

“Bed.  Now that sounds like a fine idea,” Elkie says brightly.  “But not before you show us this view you promised.”

The Beast nods shortly to her and rises, pulling me up with him.

“Leave all that,” he says to the Furyans.  “Bots’ll get it.  This way.”

Although most still have food in front of them, all of the Furyans follow us out of the mess hall and through the ship’s corridors to the command chamber.

There, in the huge central lens that dominates the chamber, the green globe of Furya revolves majestically.

Shirah drifts toward it, as if drawn magnetically.  Over the shuffling of the others, I hear her breath shorten to gasps.

“Divine forefathers,” she says.  “I never knew it looked like that.”

Elkie joins her at the window and stands hipshot, her thumbs hooked in her gun belt.  “Pretty, isn’t it?  From up here.  Too bad about up close.”

What does she mean?

Shirah ignores Elkie, pressing herself against the lens and staring hungrily at the world below.

She whirls suddenly, her eyes blazing, and points at the view.  “That is what you give up!  For what?  You could be Lord, the Lord of Furya—”

Elkie rolls her neck until it pops.  “Oh, give it a rest.”

The Beast stares stonily at Shirah.  “I heard you the first time.  C’mon.  Your room’s this way.”

He turns, still keeping me welded against his side, and leads the way back to the officer’s cabins. 


	2. Chapter 2

He says nothing to me of the Furyans, or of what has passed between him and Shirah, until we are sweatily entangled and drifting in the aftermath of our shared passion.  He holds me against his chest, one hand splayed across the Collar’s metal spine, the other stroking my belly.  I cuddle against him, warm inside and out from our lovemaking, and give voice to some of the questions churning through my head.

“Did you know you would find them?” I ask softly.

“Thought there might be one or two that survived.  Like your Purifier.  Didn’t know it’d be so many.”

Thinking of the Purifier, a Furyan who killed himself because he couldn’t face what being a Necromonger made him into, shoots a pang of sadness through me.  He should be here with us, sleeping in the hold below, waking to this new world.  His world.

“How many are there?”

“’Bout thirty.”

“Thirty?  Where are all the others?”

“Down in those caves Shirah mentioned.  That’s where I found ‘em.  Scanning the grave fields, I picked up their life signs.”

They live beneath their own _grave fields_?  A finger of cold runs down my spine.

“Why didn’t they all come with you?”

“Most of ‘em are afraid of coming topside.”

I swallow hard.  How terrible must our new world be that these survivors, these _Furyans_ , cower in caverns beneath the graves of their own dead?

“Will they join us?  There is safety in numbers.”

The Beast blows a breath out through his nose.  His hand wanders up from my belly to my breast and cups it, his thumb playing over my nipple.  It is a move designed to distract me.  And I do give my attention over to the ripple of pleasure that runs through me at his touch.  But I have been trained to listen, and I do, even while I writhe for him.

“Not sure that’d be a good idea,” he says slowly.

“Why?”

Instead of trying to explain, he feeds me a memory.  His memory, of first meeting the Furyans.

Callum stands at the black mouth of a huge cave, primitive spear in hand.  Others cower behind the Guardian’s Guardian.  Hunched shapes in ragged clothes.  Long, grizzled hair covering skin whitened by life underground and twisted by scar tissue.  Only Shirah walks upright and proud among them to greet the Beast.

“What happened to them?” I whisper, horrified.

“Your Lord Marshal,” he growls, and I feel the faint stir of his rage.

Looking up to meet his eyes, luminous in the dark, I say, “ _You_ are my Lord Marshal.  I remember no other.”  And I let him feel the truth of my words.  I have locked the memory of the four years I spent serving Zhylaw away in a place I do not choose to visit.  That past is as dead to me as the man himself.

Pacified, the Beast strokes my hair.  “Most of ‘em were burned when the Necros torched the cities.”

I shiver.  “Riddick, what do they think of us returning?”

He’s silent for a moment, stroking my hair and back.  His mind is carefully shuttered, and I get no sense of what he thinks.

“They’re afraid,” he says finally.  “They think we mighta come to finish the job.”

Remembering that he has never shared my plans to cultivate Furya, and that where I have stockpiled food and clothing, he has hoarded weapons, I ask, “Have we?”

He shifts onto his back and pulls me tight against his side.  “Maybe.  They got nothin’ to offer us.”

His coldness sends a different kind of shiver through me.  They are his people, for all that he was taken from Furya as a child.  Doesn’t he have _any_ feeling for them?  “They’ve been here for decades.  They must know something of the planet.  What we can expect.”

“They never come topside.  Callum’s the only hunter.”

“And Shirah?”  I ask softly.  Surely she, with her lioness eyes and predatory directness, is also a hunter.

He grunts, and his mind remains carefully closed.

When it becomes clear from his silence that he’s not going to answer me, I ask, “What is the Furyor?” 

“Some legend they got.”  He doesn’t look at me, his silver eyes fixed on the ceiling.  Since leaving the Basilica, and the intricately holopainted ceiling of the Lord Marshal’s chamber, all that lies above our bed is metal and recessed lighting, so I know it is not the view that holds his attention.

“A legend of a man who returns to lead them out of the crypts?”  I hazard a guess.  “A legend of a savior?”

“Somethin’ like that,” he admits.

“And Shirah believes herself to be this man’s bride?”

He shifts uncomfortably.  “Yeah, somethin’ like that,” he repeats.

“I see,” I say, turning this information, and his obvious discomfort, over in my head.

“Knew you’d be like this,” he growls.

“Like what?”

“Pissy.”

I shake my head against his shoulder.  I’ve felt no anger since hearing that he’d told Shirah he already had a woman.  He’s misreading my heart if that’s what he thinks.  “The only thing I feel is curiosity—”

“Like that Elemental.  She’ll get a good laugh outta this.”

I smile, thinking of what Aereon will make of this addendum to the prophecy she has pursued all the way from Helion Prime.  Then I slide up onto my elbow so I can look down into his face.  “You’re the only one who is angry.  Why?”  I stroke my fingertips down the side of his face and feel the tautness of the skin over his cheek and jaw.  He is angry, _so_ angry.  What is the cause of this rage?

“Crawlin’ around down there like maggots . . .” he trails off, shaking his head, but he opens his mind to me.  I feel the wash of his rage, and behind it, something unexpected.

Shame.

He’s ashamed of his people.  Ashamed that they hide underground.  Ashamed that they are too afraid to reclaim the surface.  Ashamed that they’re burned, aged, imperfect.

Ashamed of his own revulsion.

I lean over to touch my forehead to his, a gesture of trust between us.  “Not everyone is as strong as you,” I say softly.

“I know that.”

He clamps down on his rage, begins to shutter his mind.

“Please . . . help me understand.”

“What’s to understand?” he growls.  “They ain’t your people.”

“Your people _are_ my people.”

He sighs heavily and pulls me completely on top of him.  I shift a little until I can fit my belly into the hollow of his stomach.  This position isn’t as comfortable as it was a month ago.  But when he begins stroking my back, pressing me against him, I relax as much as I am able and give him the full-body comfort he wants.

“You think we should invite ‘em to stay?”

I smile into his shoulder.  If he’s asking my advice, he’s beginning to work past his rage.  “We should at least offer.  They may not want to leave their homes.  That’s understandable.  But if we don’t extend our hand in friendship, they will have all the more reason to fear us.”

He strokes my back in silence for a moment, and I can feel him thinking, turning options over in his mind.  “Some of ‘em look pretty bad.”

“Then it is a good thing we have no children among us to be frightened by outward appearances.  Some of the legionnaires who came with us are unlovely,” I say, thinking of the fashion amongst the lower soldiery of displaying their more horrific scars.

He chuckles.  “That’s the truth.”

“Tomoetu and Cays may even be able to help them.”

He makes a deep sound in his chest and I relax fully.  That is the sound I want to hear.  Knowing he is content, at peace, I can be, too.

“Sing for me,” he says sleepily.

I roll to my side, both to get into the position we like best to sleep in and to get enough air in my compressed lungs to sing.  I haven’t said my evening prayers, so I could sing them for him.  But he seems to enjoy the lullabies I’ve been learning for the baby.  So I sing him several lullabies until his breathing is deep and even, his wonderfully warm body relaxed against mine.

Then I sing, softly, so as not to disturb him, my evening prayers to Xia, before I give myself over to sleep.

 

Our sleepers come out of hibernation abruptly, as if waking from a bad dream.  The Beast positions himself in front of Vaako, and catches the commander when he starts forward out of his sleeping tube.  Following his example, I stand in front of the next tube, Commander Daray’s.  The man is not much taller than I am, but he is strongly muscled.  Eyeing him, I realize he must outweigh me by more than twenty kilos.  I wonder how I will catch him if he truly falls.

Daray’s light eyes flutter open and fix on me.  Instead of starting, he smiles.  “Liaden, you’re a sight to wake up to.”

I grin at him.  “Look to your lady.”  And I move to the next tube, where Daray’s concubine, Sanjula, is beginning to stir.

The Beast claps Vaako on the shoulder and eases the commander back into the tube to recover himself.  “Maybe it’s just wakin’ up to my face.”

Vaako chuckles weakly.  “That is enough to make anyone pray for sleep.”

“Dreamless sleep,” Daray rejoins.

I leave them teasing each other and move down the row of tubes.  Sanjula, blinking her brown eyes owlishly, joins me.  She catches the next sleeper to start out of a tube.  I smile ruefully when I see who it is, before helping Sanjula ease the girl back against the tube’s padding.  Given Zetany’s talent for disaster, it’s a surprise she didn’t pull the entire cryosleep array down on her head.

“Welcome back,” I say to my protégé.

“Are we there yet?” she asks, yawning.

“No, we thought we’d wake you early.”  I widen my eyes at her.  “We were bored.”

She blinks at me, still muzzy from the drugs and the long sleep.  Then she realizes I’m teasing her and grins.  “Oh.”

“We’ll assemble in an hour.  Tell the others.  Ctyren’s waiting for you in the sanctum.”

Her grin broadens.  Although the Beast is clearly the cub’s master, the lupinarus and Zetany share a special bond.

“An’ none of those grubs you were feedin’ him,” the Beast rumbles from behind me.  I control a shiver at the sound of his deep voice.  After three days apart, each time I hear it comes as a fresh delight.  “Just got him weaned off those things.”

“Yes, Lord Marshal.”

Her words thicken the air.  I glance at the Beast.  How will he feel upon hearing his title for the first time in three months?

He merely gives Zetany a small smile before taking my hand and walking on down the row.

The corridor grows crowded as the first to wake climb from their tubes to greet those just stirring.  The air fills with voices, laughter.  There is no order to this waking, none of the military precision there would have been if we’d been with the Armada. The difference makes me smile at the Beast.  He has wrought these changes in my people.  Our people.

Together, we reach the tubes of two I’ve missed keenly.  Caden rubs his eyes like a child as he wakes, but my Handmaiden moves instantly from sleep to wakefulness, her eyes sweeping critically over her surroundings.  She smiles brilliantly when her gaze lights on my belly.

I have not worn the belly-baring trousers the Beast had made for me.  But the simple black gown I talked him into letting me wear instead does little to conceal the bump at my waist.  Particularly from eyes as keen as Nazya’s.

“You’ve been busy, mistress,” she says.

“I’d say they had too much time on their hands,” Caden yawns.

Nazya shoots a quelling glance at the Lord Marshal’s Guard.  Anyone else would quail under her razor gaze.  But Caden is her lover as well as Riddick’s bodyguard, and he has not developed the same wary respect for her authority as the rest of the courtiers.  He shrugs off her glare with a lopsided grin and steps out of his tube, hefting the ceremonial war axe that he carries as a mark of his station.  He flexes biceps almost as large as the Beast’s, then falls into step behind us.

Nazya climbs neatly out of her tube and circles around to my far side, not because she fears either of the two large men who walk beside me, but so she can see my free hand.  Her fingers begin to flicker immediately.

 _How far from Furya?_ she signs in the language she and I developed while we were still with the Armada, so we could communicate without anyone else knowing.

 _Orbit_ , I reply, spelling out the word since we don’t have a sign for it.

_Land today?_

I roll my fingers.  _Or tomorrow._ I give her the signal that she and I need to talk, alone, where we can express more than the hand-signs allow.

_When?_

_Later.  Sanctum._

She nods.  _Baby?_

Of all those I came to think of as friends during our last months with the Armada, I only shared the secret of the life I carry with Nazya.  And only after the Beast agreed that she had already guessed.  As little escapes her attention as the Beast’s.  Maybe less.  Nazya has the trick of being utterly inconspicuous when she wants to be, while the Beast is hard to miss, even in a crowd.

_Growing._

I grin at her and she returns my smile.

_No more hiding._

My smile turns rueful, but I nod.  There can be no hiding my pregnancy anymore.

And there is no need.  We have left the Armada behind.  Those with us have chosen a path other than the one leading to the UnderVerse.  And if not all have renounced the Necromonger faith, none are slavish adherents to it anymore, either.  There may be those who look on my belly and still see blasphemy, but they will not kill me for it.

I take a deep breath of air that smells not only of cryodrugs and stale bodies, but also of freedom.

We make our way slowly down the long row of tubes, greeting the sleepers as they wake.  There are many to help now.  Many hands to catch those who start out of their frozen dreams.  Many smiling faces to meet bleary eyes as they open.  So I feel no compunction about making my excuses when I begin to tire.

Deep in conversation with Vaako and two lesser officers I don’t know by name, the Beast squeezes my hand as I turn to go.  Nazya will have ushered Tomoetu and Cays to my chamber by now.  They also know my secret, by the Beast’s command rather than my preference, and Tomoetu made me swear that I’d let him examine me as soon as he awoke.  Only by agreeing to the immediate examination, and to faithfully providing a diagnostic saliva sample for the autodoc every day, did I convince him to sleep away the journey at all.  Despite the rigors of superlight travel on his aged frame, he wanted to stay awake with me to monitor my pregnancy.

Sometimes I wonder if Tomoetu wants the baby more than I do.

Pressing a hand to the small of my back, where a vague ache has started, I begin walking back up the long row of cryotubes towards the lifts to the upper decks of the ship.  I smile and nod at many familiar faces as I move through the crowd, but none stop me until I am almost to the lifts.

“Liaden.”

I turn at the sound of my name and smile up at the speaker.  His beard, usually clipped close to his jaw, has grown long while he’s been sleeping, and I have to resist the urge to give it a playful tug.  I’ve come to think of Thaniel as a brother, and were he truly the brother I lost on Tarenge, I would not resist the urge.  But the presence of so many around us constrains me.

“It’s good to see you awake,” I say warmly instead.

“Good to be awake.  We’re near Furya, then?”

“In orbit.”

He smiles and raises a dark brow.  “Much to do.”

“It hasn’t even begun,” I say with a sigh, thinking of the frenzied final days before our departure from the Armada.  Thaniel and I barely slept during the last week as we got plant samples and DNA sequences ready for the trip.  “But you’ll have a chance to rest before we land.”

“I’ve been resting for months.  Let’s get started.”

His enthusiasm fires my own.  “Soon.  I have to satisfy Master Tomoetu first.”  I run my hand over the bulge of my belly.

Thaniel’s eyes, the rare amber of Aquilia and so like his absent twin’s that they send a pang through me, drop to follow my gesture.  He sways suddenly, and his already pale skin washes gray.

“Thaniel?”  I put a hand out to steady him.

He shakes himself and a little color comes back to his high cheeks.  “Cryo disorientation.”  He waves it away with his hand.  “You’re breed . . . blessed . . . Congratulations, Li.”  He meets my eyes again and smiles.  “That’s wonderful.”

“Thank you.  It won’t get in the way of our plans, of course.”

He laughs, a deep bark that has always reminded me of Ctyren’s.  “Of course not.  When do you ever let anything come between you and your duty?  You let the healer make sure you’re all right and then we’ll get started.”  He glances at my middle and gives another bark of laughter.  But this one sounds oddly forced.  “Well, that certainly explains some things.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”  He smiles broadly, a gleam of white between the edges of mustache and beard.  “I’ll meet you in botanics when you’re ready.”

I nod eagerly.  I’ve maintained the proto-garden during the long weeks of travel, but there’s been little real work to do.  All awaits us on the planet below.  And with Thaniel – my most enthusiastic and knowledgeable helper – awake again, I’m ready to get started.

But first I must keep my promise to Tomoetu.

I smile at Thaniel a final time and turn towards the lifts.

Less than a meter away from him, a hand takes my elbow and steers me firmly through the crowd.

“Thought you were headed up,” the Beast growls in my ear.

I look up at him in surprise.  “I am.  I only stopped for a moment to talk to Thaniel.”  I glance back but the Aquilian has already melted into the crowd.  Returning my gaze to the Beast, I find him watching me closely, his silver eyes narrowed.  “Why are you angry?”

“You and the baby’re more important than that fucking garden.”

Now it is my turn to feel the slow simmer of anger. The Beast has always discounted my plans to cultivate the planet, and has treated my hard work to that end as inconsequential.  “The garden will keep us all alive next winter.”

“Like I’d let you starve.”  The Beast pushes through the mass of people around the lift doors and slams the controls with his open palm.  Several of those standing nearby draw away from us nervously.

“We have more than just me to think about,” I hiss.  “We’ve brought an army to this planet.  An army that has never had to feed itself before—”

“You’re not tellin’ me anything new.”

I turn my face away from him so that he does not see the humiliation and anger there, although he must be able to feel it in my heart.  It is true that we have had this discussion many times, mostly before we left the Armada.  And he has never agreed with me.  He believes that this army of killers will somehow become hunters and gatherers capable of feeding themselves.  He may be right; but I did not expect him to disagree with me so publicly.

“Liaden,” he says, his voice softening.  His hand skims up my bare arm.  “Let the old man look at you.”

I bite down on the angry retort I would like to make.  I am his concubine, and he deserves respect and deference from me.  Especially in public.

“Yes, my Lord Marshal.”

He gives me a gentle push, just as the lift doors open.  “Go on.”

I walk deliberately to the back of the lift and stand with my head bowed until the doors close.  But I cannot block him out of my mind the way I can block him out of my sight.

_Stop bein’ pissy at me for takin’ care of you._

That is too much.  I lift my head to glare at him, but only catch the flash of his quicksilver eyes as the doors slide silently shut.

 

Fuming, I lie on our bed and let the two healers examine me.  Cays spends such an inordinately long time peering at my teeth that I’m tempted to snap them at her.

“Some petechiae in the gums,” she says finally.

“What do my teeth have to do with the baby?” I ask with annoyance.

Standing beside me, his age-spotted hands hovering over my belly, Tomoetu opens one eye to peer at me.  “Irritability, too.  You need more vitamin C, my dear.”

I roll my eyes.  “I took the dietary supplements you gave me.  One every day.  Two on the days I had morning sickness.”

He opens both eyes and lowers his hands.  “You still need more.  Interstellar radiation interferes with vitamin C absorption.  You have a minor deficiency.  Our beloved Lord Marshal probably does, too.  But it’s nothing to worry about.  A few days on Furya, and some of those rowela fruits you grow, and you’ll be right as rain.  Otherwise, you’re perfectly healthy.  And the baby’s doing just fine.  The trip hasn’t done either of you any harm.”

Cays clears her throat and glances sharply at her mentor.

“She can be forgiven for that,” Tomoetu says lightly.  “It’s not hurting the baby yet.”

I look from one healer to the other and feel the blood rise in my cheeks.  “Forgiven for what?”

“You’ve gained less than a kilo—” Cays begins.

Tomoetu holds out a hand, forestalling her.  “I think it’s time you relaxed your diet, Liaden.  Eat whenever you feel hungry, not just at meal times.”

I breathe deeply, trying to control the mulish set I can feel my own jaw hardening into.  “I _do_ eat whenever I feel hungry.”

And I am already enormous.  I can barely see my own feet over my belly anymore.

Cays snorts.  “I’ve heard the Lord Marshal tell you to eat more times than I can count.”

“Are you using your fingers as well as your toes?”  I snap at her.  She flushes and looks away and I feel a wash of shame.  I have liked Cays ever since we met during the Choosing of Concubines.  I was sorry the Beast did not pick her – she would have been a valuable, and welcome, addition to our household – and I was genuinely delighted when she applied to accompany us to Furya.  She deserves better from me.  “Forgive me.  Sometimes, I forget to eat,” I admit.

“I will not let the Lady forget,” Nazya says quietly from where she watches, nearly hidden and almost unnoticed, amongst the black draperies at the foot of the bed.

Tomoetu slants a wry glance at her.  “I should have made you keep Nazya awake with you.”  He pats my hand and shrugs to settle his robes around his frail shoulders.  “I’ll leave you in her capable hands.  At least I know you’ll be eating.  And I’ll look in on you in a few days.  When we get the medical center set up, I want you to come down for a full scan.  You’ll be able to see the baby,” he says slyly.

Although I know he’s manipulating me, I can’t help but feel a jolt of excitement.  “I can see it?”

“Her, Liaden.  You know it’s a girl.”

“Yes, yes.”  I cannot bring myself to think of the life growing inside me as a girl yet.  It’s an ‘it.’  A bump.  A strange swelling at my waist.  A faint bubbling sensation deep inside that Tomoetu says are the first signs of movement.  A collection of hopes that have not yet crystallized or become real.  The Beast looks at me and sees a baby; I have seen that in his mind during unguarded moments.  But I look at myself and see only the bizarre plasticity of my flesh, and the loss of a body that has hitherto been my own.

“Have you decided on a name yet?”  Tomoetu asks gently.

I swallow hard against a sudden lump in my throat.  The Beast has asked about names, but I have not wanted to consider any yet.  Somehow, the idea of naming the baby makes the eventuality of its birth – a birth that none of us know how to manage – all too real.

“No, not yet.”

He pats my hand again.  “Well, you have time.  I’ll check in on you tomorrow, I think.  Nazya.”  He nods to my Handmaiden, and she bows to him.  I purse my mouth at them.  I know they are conspirators, as much as Tomoetu and the Beast are conspirators.  But I cannot muster any true resentment towards their conspiracy.  It is my well-being, after all, that they conspire over.

Nazya ushers the healers out and then follows me into the antechamber I use as an office.

“There are other Furyans.  _Surviving_ Furyans,” I tell her without preamble as she sits down across from me at the double desk Master Builder Vinay made for us before we left the Armada.  Of all of those who did not accompany us, I miss him, and Thaniel’s twin, Chione, the most.

“That’s unexpected,” she says.  She runs her hand over the lens between us and begins making notations on its reactive surface with a stylus.  “How many?”

“Thirty or so.”

Nazya shrugs one shoulder.  “Nothing to our might.”

I shake my head.  “The Lord Marshal will not destroy his own people.”

At least, I don’t think he will.  I _hope_ he won’t.  Despite his disgust, destroying them would destroy something in him.  Something he has only begun to acknowledge.

Nazya touches her forefinger to her mouth, a gesture that I know from our months of association means she’s silently reprimanding herself.  I smile gently.  I never need to criticize my Handmaiden; she’s critical enough for both of us.

“It’s easy for me to forget that he’s Furyan, too,” I say, guessing at the reason behind her reproof.  “There’s more.  The Furyans are . . . ununified.  There are some who have survived on the planet.  They live mostly underground.  Others are like the Lord Marshal, scattered throughout the ‘Verse, but returning now—”

Nazya’s dark eyes rise sharply from the lens.  “Why now?”

Her perception is as terrifying as the Beast’s sometimes.  “There is a legend the Furyans have.  Of a savior returning.  They call him the Furyor.”

She drops her eyes to the lens again and makes another notation.  “Our Lord Marshal.”

I shake my head at her.  “You should be a seer.  You’d make a great deal more than I pay you.”

Nazya grins, both at my back-handed compliment, and at my reference to an argument we began before she went into cryosleep.  I want her, and all of the household staff, to accept payment for their services now that we have left the Armada.  But she, like Caden and Chef and the others, has stubbornly refused to even entertain the notion.

“Well, since you pay me nothing . . .”  She trails off, knowing I will rise to the bait.  But she continues before I can open my mouth to rekindle the argument.  “If they see him as a savior, he could act as a bridge between our peoples.”

I nod.  “We need to make him see that.”

“He does not—?”

Thinking of his shame, I say carefully, “I have not met them yet . . . well, I’ve met a few of them.  They are . . . not like us.”

“Are they like him?”  she asks warily.

I have to smile.  Nayza gets along with the Beast better than most of the household staff, but mostly because she and the Beast share the same concern for my welfare, and the same conviction that they know what is best for me.

“Some of them.  They are strong.  Dominant,” I say, thinking of Shirah, and Elkie.  “But . . . wounded.  That’s not quite right.  The loss of their homeworld has left its mark.”

“Ahh.”  Nazya taps her finger to her lip again.  “A world that Necromongers took from them.  Do they hate us?”

“Maybe.  How much remains to be seen.  I have not met all of them yet.  I’ll be interested to hear your impressions.”

Nazya taps the stylus against her palm, a gesture that I know means she’s thinking, turning things over in her mind much the way the Beast does.  “After we land tomorrow,” she says absently.

“At the morning meal today, I’d think.”

Nazya’s neatly arched eyebrows shoot up.  “They’re . . . here?”

“Staying in the officer’s cabins.  We’ll have to find somewhere else for the commanders to sleep tonight.”

Nazya nods firmly and I can see her pushing aside her ruminations to deal with the problem at hand.  She taps the lens several times, pulling up schematics that spin across its curved surface.  “I’ll make sure that’s dealt with.”

“Thank you.  When you’re done, join me in the solarium.  I need to meet with the others before we dine.”

Nazya’s mouth twists with a question she will not ask until I invite it.

“Yes?”

“Will he keep _them_ now that we’re away from the Armada?  There is no need.”

She still dislikes the fact that I share the title of Concubine with anyone, although she has acknowledged – only to me and only in private – that she thinks the Beast’s strategy of choosing the others to distract attention from me was a good one.

“That is the purpose of the meeting,” I say, thinking of what the Beast and I have discussed during the last few weeks of travel.  What I must find a way of telling Nadie, Avalyn and Zetany today.  “He will let them go their own way if that is what they want.  If they decide to stay with him, they are welcome in our house.”

Nazya snorts delicately.

“As long as he is Lord, he will have enemies.  And so will I.”  I smooth a hand over the bulge of my stomach.  “Perhaps more now than ever.”

Nazya shakes her head.  “All will come to see this for what it is.  A miracle.  You will be the best-loved woman on Furya.”

“Are you prophesying for me now?  Anyway, there is already someone who holds that honor.”

“Oh?”

“You’ll meet her today.  I’ll let you form your own impressions.”

“At breakfast?”

“Mm.”  I wink at her.  “Her presence will add a certain spice to the meal, I think.”

Nayza laughs.  “You promised life on Furya would be different.”  She rises and makes her way to the door.  “But I didn’t know it would be quite _this_ different.”

With a nod, she leaves to deal with the accommodation problem our unexpected guests have posed.

Leaving me alone with my thoughts.

I pick up my own stylus and tap the lens.  Working through levels of security puzzles and passcodes, I finally open the Concubines’ histories and begin recording my impressions of the last two days.  I leave nothing out, not even our lovemaking and the Beast’s shame.  My predecessors left me their most intimate thoughts, and although I am likely to be the last First Concubine, without a successor to pass the histories on to, I will not betray their ancient trust.

“Li?”  A deep rumble startles me out of my scribing.

I turn awkwardly toward the door behind me, only to draw up sharply when a pain shoots across my belly.  I press my hands against it, trying to relieve the ache of the muscle I’ve pulled.

He’s beside me in an instant, kneeling next to my chair, his huge hands covering mine.

“It’s just a muscle,” I say through clenched teeth.

“Not a contraction?  You’re sure?”

I nod and breathe shallowly until the cramp begins to ease.

He watches me closely, his eyes nearly black with concern.  His hands move slowly over my stomach, and the heat of his hands soothes the cramp to a dull ache.  “Shouldn’t a snuck up on you.”

With a shake of my head, I absolve him.  “I should know by now that I can’t twist that way anymore.”

“You okay?”

When I nod, he reaches behind my chair and picks up something he’s dropped.  Then he rises to lean against the desk, setting two spheres on the smooth stonewood surface.

I don’t need to look at them, see their blood-orange color, to know what they are.  Their sweet citrus smell fills the small chamber.

“You spoke to Tomoetu already.”  I sit back in the chair and rub my belly ruefully.

“Yeah.”  The Beast rolls one of the rowela fruits around on its axis with his forefinger.  “Shoulda taken better care of you—”

His presumption that I cannot take care of myself brings back my earlier annoyance in a hot flood.

“Why does everyone insist on treating me like a child?”  I snap.  “I’m pregnant, not an imbecile.  And it is _I_ who take care of _you_.  That is my—”

The Beast leans over me, his eyes flaring.  “Your what?”

Duty.

I swallow the word, because it one he hates.  One that has caused the most strife between us.  “My function,” I whisper.

He leans back against the desk, crossing his long legs at the ankle, and watches me through narrowed eyes.  “Thought we were beyond that.”

I rub my fingers across my belly and avoid his gaze.  We _are_ beyond that.  I’m not sure what we’ve become, but we are like no Lord Marshal and First Concubine I have ever heard of.  We are like nothing I have ever known.  Even my parents weren’t as close as the Beast and I are at times; nor as distant and at odds as we are at others.

“Meeting your kin has unsettled me,” I say slowly.

The Beast draws me up out of my chair and cradles me against his body.  He waits, stroking my hair, until I put my arms around him, relax into the warmth of him, before he says, “So you went runnin’ back to what you know.”

Admitting it to both him and myself, I nod against his shoulder.

“They’re strangers to me, too,” he says, in his deep rumble that comforts me all the way to my core.  “We got nothing more in common than comin’ from the same place.”

“I know that.”  And I do.  But seeing him with them, and realizing that they are in some ways closer to him than I will ever be, has left me shaken.

He traces his fingertips over my belly.  “This counts for more’n any of that.”

My breath catches in my throat and I look up at him in wonder.

He smiles at my expression.  “That a surprise?”

“Returning to your homeworld . . . finding your people . . .”

“Nothin’s more important than you an’ the baby, Liaden.”

Feeling tears well in my eyes, I bury my face in his neck and inhale the scent of him.  He says such things rarely.  I feel them in his mind sometimes, when he lets me.  But seldom does he express them aloud.  Each tender word is something to be treasured, tucked away in the vault of my heart.

“Want me to get rid of her?” he asks gently.

His consideration touches me to the quick, bringing a fresh wash of tears.  I wipe my eyes hastily.  “No.  I’ll get used to Shirah.  To all of them.”  I look up at him and smile.  “I like Elkie.  I can’t help it.”

He brushes wetness off my cheekbone with his knuckle.  “Just remember what she is.”

“A mercenary,” I say and he nods somberly.  “Like the ones who used to hunt you.”

He tilts his head and looks hard at me.  “Which mercs used to hunt me?”

“I can figure out some things for myself.”

“What else you figure out?”  His voice is low, and with anyone else, that tone would signal danger.

“They would not have been hunting you without a reason.”

“Yeah,” he says flatly.  “And?”

“And I know that you escaped from a high-security prison.  So, you must have had a large bounty on your head.”

His nostrils flare and his jaw tightens.  “Leave it, Liaden.”

I look away, so he won’t see the hurt in my eyes, although I cannot hide it from him if he looks into my heart.  He has shared very little of his past with me, despite the many hours we’ve spent together, and his thorough excavation of even the smallest details of my personal history.  Whenever I have touched on his past, he’s deflected me, giving me only the vaguest generalities.  And so I have learned not to ask.  But I still feel a faint hurt that he will not share this part of himself with me, particularly when I hold nothing back from him.

“Liaden—”  He sighs and strokes my hair.  “There’s nothin’ there I want to remember.”

Glancing up, I see that his eyes have dulled to lead.  I don’t want to resurrect memories that hurt him.  Surely there must be something good, something worth remembering, in his past?

“There’s not,” he says, responding to my unspoken thought.  “Whatever there was died on the floor of the throne room.  End of fuckin’ story.”

Kyra.  His Kyra.

I try not to remind him of the girl he lost, who died for him.  He has only recently stopped having nightmares of her death.  I have taken that as a sign of his growing contentment with me, and the cessation of his guilt.  I did not mean to reopen that wound.

“Forgive me.  I was just curious about your past.”

He nuzzles my hair.  “Focus on our future instead.”

More words to tuck away in the vault of my heart.  I hug him tightly, feeling the warm solidity of him against my arms, the heavily muscled bulk of his shoulders beneath the ribbed tunic he wears.  “I will.”

We hold each other in comfortable silence for several minutes, enjoying the closeness of our bodies, until he says, “You hungry?”

“No.”  I feel a fresh flare of annoyance, all the sharper for having replaced my prior contentment.  “Did Cays—?”

“Thought I’d call everyone together for breakfast—”  His voice drops.  “Did Cays what?”

“Nothing.”

“Liaden—”  The warning tone, and I know he’ll simply wrest the truth out of Cays if I refuse to tell him.

“She thinks I haven’t gained enough weight.  Which is absurd.  I’m already so fat I barely fit through doorways.”

He holds me at arm’s length; his quicksilver eyes flick over me.  Then he grins.  “I like you fat.”

“Riddick!”

He chuckles.  “C’mon.  You’re definitely eatin’.”

“I’m not hungry!” I protest, but he ignores me, wrapping his arm around my waist and dragging me with him toward the mess hall. 


	3. Chapter 3

I hear the buzz of voices before we even near the galley doors.  People have gathered hastily to the Beast’s growled call of, “breakfast, now!” through his master lens.  As we enter the cavernous hall, I see that many are already seated at the long tables.  Over their food and drink, they talk excitedly.

And laugh.

The contrast to the somber meals we suffered at the Lord Marshal’s table before we left the Armada could not be more marked.  The difference makes me smile.

The mess hall is filled with light and color, and as I peer past the bodies moving from galley to tables, I see that someone has projected the view from the forward lens onto the mess hall wall.  Furya revolves in its mysterious green glory against the dramatic backdrop of its mother planet, Prokris, and the distant red star, Kreon.  The resolution of the image is so good that I can see the dark spots of some of Prokris’s smaller moons on the gas giant’s face.  One of the massive storms that whip across Prokris’s upper atmosphere burns vibrant orange against Furya’s green.

“Whaddo you think?” the Beast asks softly from beside me.

“I think it’s beautiful.”  I smile up at him.  “From a distance.  What is it like up close?”

His arm tightens around me.  “Beautiful.  And dangerous.  We got a lot to do.”

 _Before we can call it home_ , his thought trails off inside my mind.

“But we will,” I say to reassure him, and myself.  “Call it home.”

He smiles slowly, then turns us both toward the galley.

A stark black figure rises against the green backdrop and waves us towards a table that has been turned at a right angle to the others.  A flock of ravens, Vaako, Daray and three other officers, sit at the otherwise empty table.

Some things are slow to change.

The Beast glances down at me and the corner of his mouth twitches.  “Want to sit with the riff-raff?”

I would like to sit just with him, but I know our time of solitude is past.  “No.”  I sigh.  “It would upset them to no purpose.”

“Mm.  Maybe we’ll invite the riff-raff to sit with us.”

He does not elaborate as we make our way to the head table.  As always, he does me the honor of seating me before himself, two places to Vaako’s right, so that I will sit at his right hand and Vaako will sit at his left.

Vaako’s dark eyes follow the Beast’s motions and his mouth tightens to a white line.

“My Lord Marshal,” he says.

“Riddick,” the Beast corrects his commander automatically.  He’s succeeded in getting me to call him by his name both in public and in private.  It has proven harder to break the officers of their deferential habit.  “Where’re Jules and Rea?”  He nods at Daray and one of the other officers.

Daray’s eyes flick nervously to Vaako and away.  “We thought you might want to meet with us in private, Lord Marshal.”

“You know the drill.”  And this is certainly the truth since we practiced the Descent procedure for days before they went into cryosleep.  “Bring ‘em over.”

Daray and one of the other commanders hastily excuse themselves to collect their women.

“Is the planet what you expected?”  Vaako asks.

“Yeah.  Windier than I thought it’d be.  We’re arrivin’ in the middle of storm season.  Found us a good spot, though—”

The Beast breaks off when two trenchers of food suddenly appear before us.  I look up in surprise, unused to service after so many weeks on our own.  Chef winks at me before disappearing back into the galley.

“So much for makin’ do on the recyclers,” the Beast rumbles, surveying the platter in front of him.

With a glance, I see what he means.  Despite our agreement not to open the food stores until necessary, Chef has prepared a variety of fresh dishes that could not have come from the recyclers.  It is hard to be angry at his extravagance, though, with the aromas of fresh bread and my favorite sausages rising to my nose.

The Beast lifts a goblet of blood-red juice to me and I hastily pick up my own glass to clink against his.  “To Furya,” he says, our toast of many months.

“To Furya,” I repeat, and am startled to hear the echo of my words from the men around us.  I’ve become too used to being alone.

As I set my glass down and begin to eat, Daray and the other black-uniformed commander return, trailed by Sanjula and a blonde woman I recognize from brief meetings during the hectic week before our departure from the Armada.  Tirea wears the red and black uniform of a Weaver and I recall that she is primarily responsible for the tanks of navellium that will transform the dreadnought we ride into our future home.

Sanjula and Tirea put their plates down across from me and I smile warmly at them.

“Li, you look wonderful,” Sanjula leans across the table to brush a kiss across my cheek.  “How do you feel?”

“Very well, thank you.  And you?  Has the disorientation worn off?”

Sanjula seats herself neatly and raises her goblet of Cark.  “This is helping.”

My smile turns rueful.  I miss Cark.  “I’m glad.  Tirea, it’s nice to see you again.”

The blonde woman blushes becomingly.  “Lady Liaden, thank you for inviting me to your table.”

“Thank Riddick,” I say lightly, but purposefully.  “Have you had a chance to check on the navellium?  We monitored it as best we could while you were down, but some of the readings were odd.”

She nods, a bright flash.  “One of the tanks has soured, but the others are within working parameters.”

“Soured?” the Beast asks.

Tirea’s blush turns fiery.  “That’s what we call it when the namites become unstable, Lord Marshal.  It’s a poor term—”

“Good enough,” the Beast says thoughtfully.  “Can we flush ‘em in space?  I don’t want to take ‘em down to the planet if they’re unstable.”

Daray nods, and I remember that much of the tactical planning for the Descent fell to him.  “Any of the tanks can be jettisoned and detonated before we enter the upper atmosphere without any ill effect.  And before you ask, we’ve sufficient stock even if we lose another tank.”

Riddick grins at his commander.

“We’ll do that first, Lord Marshal,” Vaako interjects.  “Before we begin the Descent protocol.”

The Beast nods.  “I want it done before we evac to the secondary ships—”

Sanjula distracts me from the rest of the Beast’s discussion with his commanders by leaning across the table and asking conspiratorially, “Li, when are you due?”

“Sixteen weeks standard.”  I put a hand to my belly, feeling both an uncomfortable twitch at talking openly about what has been so long a secret, and a small thrill.

“That’s wonderful, Lady Liaden,” Tirea says, beaming.  “You’re so lucky.”

I search her eyes for any sign of insincerity, or revulsion, but see neither.  Perhaps the Beast and Nazya are right about how those who have accompanied us will receive the news of my pregnancy.  But something in me still doubts.

Sanjula’s brow knits and I realize she’s counting backwards.  “But that means—”

The Beast’s arm slides around my back and he shifts me a little closer to him.  How can he carry on his conversation with his commanders and still know where Sanjula’s whispered half-thought is leading?  I have been trained to observe, to miss nothing, but the Beast is naturally more observant than I ever will be.

He glances at Sanjula, his eyes glowing green in the reflected light from the wall.  “Yeah, that’s right,” he growls.

Sanjula presses her lips together over the unfinished thought.  That I must have been pregnant before we left the Armada.  Before the Beast even announced his intention to recolonize Furya.  Her eyes move from me to the Beast and she looks at him with something like adoration.

I glance at him.  What has he done to earn such admiration?

With a shrug, he returns to his conversation with his commanders, but his arm remains around me.

“What was it like traveling at superlight?” Tirea asks.

Knowing the Beast is listening, I sigh around a bite of sausage.  “Dull.  We had to keep the shields down, so there wasn’t anything to see or do—”  I gasp when the Beast’s arm constricts around my ribs.

Without breaking off his conversation with his commanders, he chuckles.

Sanjula and Tirea exchange indulgent smiles.

“And the Garden of Eden?” Sanjula asks, using the pet name the courtiers have for my farm.

Still catching my breath, I nod.  “Fine . . . fine.  Ready to be planted.”

“I hear there’s open water on Furya.  Is that true?”  Sanjula’s tone is wistful, almost worshipful, and I remember that she comes from a desert planet.

I tip my chin at the luminous planet on the wall.  “It’s almost all water.  All that green.”

Sanjula’s eyes widen.  “That green is water?”

“Nine-tenths water,” the Beast murmurs, not looking away from his commanders.  “Only eight major land masses.”

“Why is it green?” Tirea asks curiously.  “The water worlds I’ve seen are blue.”

“Extremely high algae content in the water,” the Beast answers.

“And a dissolved mineral,” I add.  “We’re not sure what it is yet, but it didn’t harm the original settlers.”

Sanjula darts a glance at the Beast, who is still deep in discussion with this commanders, despite his attention to our conversation.  “I hear some survived.  And they’re here.  On board.”

I nod firmly.  “You heard correctly.  Riddick invited some of the survivors to join us.”

“Speaking of which,” the Beast murmurs.  I look up and see Cawl and another man standing in the doorway to the hall.  Their bearing, proud and at the same time defensive, marks them as much as their golden skin and the rough animal skins they both wear.

“Shall I invite them over?” I ask the Beast.

At his deep grunt, I rise and make my way to the door.

“Gentlemen, would you care you join us?”

Cawl’s dark eyes flick up and down me.  The other man, Hardy, I remember from our introduction the day before, glances at me and then away, continuing to survey the room.

“Mornin’, girl.”  Cawl takes a deep breath, scenting the way the Beast sometimes does.  “Smells like you death-lovin’ fucks can cook when you want to.”

I smile.  “We death-loving fucks do our best.”

Cawl grins at my rejoinder.  “Lead the way.”

To shock him, and to send a clear message to all watching, I thread my arm through his as I lead him to our table.

I seat him at the head of the table, a place of honor, but also on my far side so that I will be between him and the Beast.  They may be his people, but that does not mean I trust them with his safety.  Trailing us silently, Hardy slips into the empty chair next to Tirea, who regards him with unfeigned curiosity.

“What can I get you for breakfast, gentlemen?”  I ask, leaning on the table between Cawl and the Beast.

“What’s on the menu?”  Cawl nods at the goblet of rowela juice next to my plate.  “Blood of innocents to go with those fake eggs?”

“We cater to many tastes,” I say sweetly.  “If you prefer your breakfast raw, I’m sure Chef can accommodate you.”

Cawl looks up at me, nostrils flaring, grin going wicked.  “You’re playing with fire, girl.  I ain’t that old.”

“She’s taken,” the Beast growls.

I glance at him in surprise.  He is always possessive, and his possessiveness warms me.  But I have never seen him react so aggressively to what is, at bottom, no more than friendly banter.

“Down, boy,” Cawl responds, his tone matching the Beast’s.  “Some of that meat’ll do me fine.”

Hardy nods, but before I can even move away from the table, a long platter of sausages, glazed emrula meat, and pickled Aquilian anchovies arrives.  Chef gives me another wink before he disappears back into his lair.

“Good service ‘round here,” Cawl says grudgingly.

With a brisk snap, I open the cloths wrapped around the utensils at their places and spread them across their laps.  Hardy jolts when I reach across him, and holds himself still with what is clearly an effort.

I bow to him.  “Forgive me.  I did not mean to startle you.”

I withdraw carefully, sliding back into my place beside the Beast.  The warm, comforting weight of his arm immediately envelops me.

“You got pretty manners, girl,” Cawl growls.  “You think that changes anythin’?”

His attitude should annoy me, but I can only feel sympathy for him, for all of them.  Except perhaps Shirah.  I know what it is to lose a world, a people, a past.  Their loss calls to something in me, helps me see past their defenses, the same way I once saw past the Beast’s.  “I don’t know, grandfather,” I say softly.  “Does it?”

Cawl’s jaw clenches.  “Don’t call me that.”

I rub my fingers across my scalecloth-covered belly.  “The blood of Furya lives here.  Will you not be grandfather to this child?”

The Beast’s arm tightens warningly, but I keep my eyes on the old man.  He started this game of words, a game of which I am a master after four long years in Zhylaw’s court.  And I don’t play games unless I mean to win.

Cawl’s grooved cheeks flush dully and he reaches across to the platter.  “Let’s eat,” he growls.

I smile and pick up my goblet.  I could press the point, but there is nothing to be gained by it.  Later, I will remind Cawl of this conversation, and make sure that he understands that I mean everything I’ve said.

Under the cover of clattering utensils and resumed conversation, Cawl says to me, “You play good, girl.”

“Only against a worthy opponent,” I respond quietly.

The Beast, listening, reaches up under my hair to stroke my neck.

His hand freezes, tightens.

_Liaden, touch me._

I glance over at him and see that his face has gone blank, all amusement dying from his eyes.  Following his line of sight, I see Shirah and her Guardian standing in the doorway.

Unlike the two Furyans who stood there a few moments before, I have little doubt they will join us without an invitation.

I lean into the Beast, until I can rest my head on his shoulder and slide my arm around his back.  With his hand on my Collar, it is easy to speak into his mind.

_More?_

He doesn’t answer me, but I catch the whirling edges of his thoughts.

Running.  Air so hot and thick each breath is a struggle.  Blood’s on fire.  Can’t see.  Everything’s too fucking bright . . .

Chasing.  Chasing something.  Gotta keep up.  Gotta catch . . . gotta kill.  Gotta win . . .

He focuses fiercely, pushing me back so I am not so deep in his mind, and I see the image he focuses on.

My own face, sleep flushed, framed by the tangle of my hair.  My eyes, dark with desire, looking up at him.  My skin like a spill of cream across the black sheets of our bed.  He runs his hand down my throat, enjoying the contrast of his dark skin against the paleness of my flesh.  Before bending his head to me, he appreciates the new fullness of my breasts, the flush of each peak.  He leaves his own red trail on my skin as he bites his way from my shoulder to my nipple.

I lift that same shoulder, sliding it free of the wide collar of my gown, baring the long line of marks from our lovemaking early this morning.  Across the table, Sanjula sputters into silence.  I ignore her, and the others at the table, focusing on what the Beast perceives as a threat.  Setting my glass down, I reach across and slide my hand around his thigh.  The Bride may not be able to see where my hand is under the lip of the table, but the angle of my arm is unmistakable.

With me draped around him like a robe, the Beast relaxes.  His hand slides down my back to cup my hip, his fingers spreading across the bulge of my stomach.

Shirah stops abruptly behind Daray, crossing her arms under her breasts, a gesture worthy of the Beast.  Her eyes snap fire and beneath the caramel hue of her skin, she is pale.

“You said nothing about so many,” she says to the Beast without preamble.

“You didn’t ask,” he rejoins, his tone lazy, belaying the tension I can still feel running through him.  What is the source of this tension?  He seemed irritated with her previously, but not tense, not . . . nervous.

“I am asking now.”

“Twelve hundred, give or take.”

Shirah draws a hissing breath between her teeth.  “You come with an army.  To invade.  That is why you refuse—”

Heat rolls off the Beast in a wave.  “I gave you my reasons.  You wouldn’t fucking listen.”

“Because your reasons make no sense!” Shirah shouts, and all conversation around us ceases.  “Where all others failed, _you_ destroyed the destroyer of worlds.  You avenged the fallen.  _You_ are the savior of Furya.  Your people wait for you to lead them out of darkness and you refuse for the sake of that slut at your side—”

I lift an eyebrow but it is Daray who responds, rising from his seat and drawing the ceremonial dagger that hangs at his hip.  “You do grave insult to Lady Liaden.”

Callum steps in front of Shirah, sweeping her behind him with one huge hand.

“Down, Daray,” the Beast growls.  “ _Now_.”

With a sketched bow to Shirah and her Guardian, Daray sheaths the blade and returns to his seat.

“Anythin’ else you got to say?” the Beast asks Shirah.  “Since you got everyone’s attention?”

“I ask you one last time,” she responds, undaunted by his caustic tone.  “Will you accept the mantle of Furyor and lead your people—”

“Look around,” he growls.  “Who d’you think my people are?”

“Murderers!  Rapists of worlds!”  Shirah shouts, seeming to ignore the fact that she’s deep in the den of those self-same murderers and rapists of worlds.

“Most of ‘em weren’t even born when the shit went down here.  An’ maybe you’d better ask Elkie about me ‘fore you decide I’m any different.”  He glances at me and his ice-hard eyes soften.  “You and your people can join us,” he says to Shirah, and then encompasses the other Furyans with a sweep of his silver glare.  “All of you.  If you want.”

“It is _you_ who are to join us.  To lead us!”

The Beast’s mouth tightens to a white line.  “I got enough to worry about.”

“You will not come to us?”  Shirah asks, and there’s something very like despair in her voice.

“No.”  The finality of his response rings through the silent room.

“You know what I must do?”

Fury, red hot and biting, sweeps through the Collar.  His entire body tenses and I find myself hugging him tightly, wondering what she threatens that could enrage him so.

“You were gonna do it anyway,” he rumbles, deeper and harsher than his growl, and I rub my cheek against his shoulder, wishing I knew how to pacify him, to rid him of his rage.  “You like havin’ us snappin’ after you like dogs.  Do whatever you’re gonna do.  But don’t lay it on me.”

“No, once I met you . . .”  Shirah shakes her head vehemently.  “If you would just accept what is rightfully yours, I would submit without more!  There would be no need to call the Hunt—”

“I told you, no!”  The Beast roars, shrugging me off and standing to face Shirah.

“Then what happens is on your head!”  She shouts back at him, before turning on her heel and stalking from the room, her long braids swishing behind her.

The Beast glares after her for a moment.  Then he pushes back from the table and holds his hand out to me.  “Liaden.”

I rise shakily, making murmured excuses to those we leave behind, afraid to take my eyes off him for even a heartbeat.  He is so angry.  Angrier than I have seen him in months, and my heart breaks a little to find that the well of his rage is still full, still boiling, after all these months of peace.

 

He says nothing when I take his hand and follow him out of the mess hall.  Nothing as we walk through the ship’s dark corridors.  He turns down the corridor towards our rooms, and I expect him to continue to the sanctum, where I can only wonder how he will vent this terrible rage . . .

Instead, he stops at a doorway and waits for me to open it, since it only responds to my bioprint.

My solarium?  What does he want in my solarium?

I reach past him and unlock the door, then follow him hastily inside.

“Sit,” he growls at me, and I do, sinking onto one of the padded chaises grouped around the room’s central feature, a massive lens that takes up an entire wall and shows the dramatic view of Furya and its system.

The Beast stalks to the lens and leans against it, looking out.

“Fuck!”  He slams his fist into the wall next to the lens, making me jump.

Now I am afraid.  Not _of_ him, but _for_ him.  I have seen him consumed by such rage before, and he is always its worst victim.

I rise and move behind him.  Slowly, carefully, so I do not startle him, I lean against his back and put my arms around him.  When he does not snap or push me away, I rub my cheek against his shoulder, and curl my hands gently over his huge pectorals, until I can feel his thunderous heartbeat under my palm.

His hand covers mine, and the fist he was grinding against the wall opens slowly.

“Promise me somethin’,” he says roughly.

“Anything.”  If it will quell his anger, bring back the peace we have enjoyed for months, I will promise him anything.

“Stay clear of Shirah.  Whatever happens, stay out of it.”

“I promise,” I say without reservation.

“Want you to keep this promise better’n the one you made me about Gennica.”

That stings.  I _did_ keep the promise I made him about Gennica, and the only harm she did was to herself.  But I am not the one who needs succor now.  So instead of snapping back at him, I press closer and caress his chest with a gentle flexion of my hands.

“Liaden, answer me,” he growls.

“I swear.  I have no interest in being anywhere near Shirah, whatever she does.”

He sighs heavily and leans his forehead against the lens.

“What is she going to do?” I ask softly.

“Some ritual they got.”  He squeezes my hand, presses it against his heart.  “I’m dunnow exactly . . . what I do know is that if she offers herself up like a fucking bone, there’ll be dyin’ before it’s over.”

“Will you be part of that?”

“No.”

I close my eyes in relief.

The Beast turns suddenly and scoops me up into his arms.  Trusting him completely, I put my head against his shoulder and wrap my arms around his neck.  I am content to go wherever he wants to take me.

He stops after a few steps and sinks onto the chaise, still holding me close.  I shift a little for comfort, and settle into his lap.  He strokes my hair ruminatively, his gaze still on the lens, his eyes silver-green in the reflected light.

We sit in comfortable silence for several minutes, until he asks, “What’d you say if I asked you to marry me?”

The question is so unexpected that I stammer, “Wh-what?”

“You heard me.”

I have to laugh.  Monogamous marriage is an outmoded concept, even among Daixians.  Nor can I understand why he would suddenly want to resurrect such a quaint tradition.  “So that you can be the Groom of Furya?”

He chuckles but when he looks down at me, his face is serious.  “I don’t want her to be able to hurt you.”

“The only words that have the power to wound are the truth.”  I stroke his cheek.  “Nothing she has said has wounded me.”

He nods but his eyes return to the view, and they are still leaden with anger.

I rub my face against his shoulder and cuddle a little closer to him.  “I am yours.  The words we put to that do not matter.  So long as you hold me here, I am content.”  I slide my hand down his neck to cup his heart again.

“Used to matter to you.”

True.  The fine line between companion and concubine was once something to fight him over.  “I hope I have learned something in the time we have been together.”

He sighs and tucks my face into the curve of his neck.  I close my eyes, settling into the warmth and safety of his big body around mine, and hum him a tone poem I have been learning from the histories.

He holds me, stroking my hair to let me know he’s listening, until I begin to repeat the refrain a second time.  Then he says quietly, “There’re some others that wouldn’t come up to the ship.  I want you to stay away from them, too.”

“As you wish.”  I rub my cheek against his collar.  “Will there be anywhere on Furya that is open to me?”

He chuckles.  “I’m sure you’ll figure out somethin’.”

“Can I at least know the names of those I’m to avoid?”

Another deep chuckle.  “You’ll know ‘em when you see ‘em.  But their names are Greer and Booth.  An’ there may be others comin’.”

“Furya calls her children home.”

His hand fists in my hair.  “Don’t start, Liaden.”

“It was merely an observation, not an obligation.”

He tugs my head back so he can look down into my eyes.  “Didn’t ask what you thought.”

It takes me a moment to realize that it is a question and not a command.  Only the quicksilver light in his eyes tells me he is waiting for an answer.

“Of you being their Furyor?”

“Yeah.”

“I think you are right.  Your place is here.  If they chose to add their numbers to ours, then we will care for them as we would our own.  But twelve hundred men and women turned their back on a promised land they bled and killed for and followed you here.  They did this not because of shared blood or heritage, but because of a shared dream.  Because of a dream you showed them.  That is where your obligation lies.”

He tucks my head back into his neck and holds me close.  “Yeah, that’s how I see it.”

“They will come to us,” I say, feathering my fingers over his corded shoulders reassuringly.  “When they see the magnificent home we build, they will come to us.”

He rubs his face in my hair.  “Found the perfect place.  High limestone cliff.  Got an old lava field behind it, just like you wanted.  Plenty of fresh water.  Right on the coast.  Perfect.”

I hear a wistfulness in his tone, the same as when he mentioned the site to Vaako, and realize that he wants to be praised for this accomplishment.  Instead, we’re all focusing on Shirah and her demands on him.  She’s ruining what should be his moment.

“I cannot wait to see it, my love.”  I lift my head so I can look into his eyes.  Let him see the pride there.  He has led us here.  His vision and strength have brought us to this new promised land, and I am so very proud of him.

He chuckles and twirls a strand of my hair between his fingers, avoiding my eyes.  “Say that again after you’ve met some of the locals.”

“Other than Shirah and her people?”  I ask lightly.

He shakes his head.  “They’re on the other side of the island.  Nowhere near us.  Our locals are of the six-legged variety.”

I have seen some of the native fauna while he was surveying the planet.  Insectoid.  I shiver a little in distaste.

“Killed one of the big ones,” he continues.  “Good meat.  So stop worrying about what we’re gonna eat.”

“I have never doubted your ability to provide for us.”  Feeding twelve hundred courtiers, technicians and legionnaires is a different matter, but this is not the time to resurrect that argument.

He tucks my head back into his neck and holds me in silence for a long time.  I know Avalyn, Zetany and Nadie will arrive shortly, for the meeting I have called, but I cannot bring myself to disrupt this sweet embrace.  If the last few hours are any indication, moments like this will be few and far between in the days to come.

 _I want this to work_ , he thinks to me, a desire too deep and desperate to be expressed aloud.

 _It will, my love_.  “You’ll make it work.  We’ll make it work together,” I whisper into his throat and press small kisses on his warm skin between my words.

“Liaden . . .” he says softly, his voice dropping, deepening.  I smile against his skin, because I know that tone.  It reaches inside me and stirs the fire that seems to burn perpetually in my blood just for him.

A moment later he’s rising, lifting me, and striding towards the door.

“Avalyn, Zetany and Nadie are on their way,” I protest breathlessly.

“Let ‘em wait,” he growls.

 

Avalyn and Zetany are waiting patiently for me when I return to the solarium an hour later.  I leave the door open so that Nadie can join us and settle onto a chaise between them.

“Forgive me,” I say quietly.  Checking to make sure they’ve both helped themselves to tea, I prepare a cup for myself.

“You’re blushing,” Avalyn observes.

“Am I?”  I fan my hand in front of my face.  “It is overly warm in here.”

Avalyn snorts and Zetany looks back and forth between us, nonplussed.

“I thought after three months you’d have him trained to your schedule.”

I finally break into laughter.  “I don’t think anyone will ever _train_ Riddick to anything.”

Avalyn laughs with me, understanding both my affection for and frustration with the man we serve.  Zetany examines her tea with a frown.

“What’s wrong, dear heart?” I ask her gently when my laughter subsides.

“You’re talking about sex, aren’t you?  I hate it when you leave me out.”

I touch her shoulder to lessen the sting of exclusion.  I remember what it was like to be the only virgin among Zhylaw’s concubines.  To feel that I was missing half of Aimi, Iloru and Gennica’s conversation.  “I’m sorry.  We didn’t mean to leave you out.”

Zetany shrugs, but looks miserable.  “I’m always going to be left out.”  She swirls her tea in her cup – a movement I watch with trepidation given how clumsy my protégé can be – and sinks lower in her chair.

My heart goes out to her.  The Beast chose her as his concubine for reasons of his own, and not only to distract attention from me.  He seems truly fond of the girl.  But whatever his reasons, and whatever his plans for Zetany, they do not seem to include taking her to his bed.  He has not claimed any of his other concubines, and shows no inclination to do so.

And now he plans to offer them their freedom.

“Maybe not,” I offer soothingly.  “That’s why I called you here this morning.  But . . . where’s Nadie?”

“I’ll find her for you, mistress,” Nazya says, rising from a chair in the corner.  I control a start.  She is terrifyingly silent sometimes.  I didn’t see or hear her enter.

“No, it’s all right,” I say.  “If she misses what I have to say, it’s her own fault.”

Avalyn murmurs something that sounds like ‘good’ into her tea and I slant a glance at her.

“Yes?”

She gives me a bright smile before taking a sip of tea.  Zetany giggles.

I pursue my mouth at the two of them.  I have no love for Nadie either, but I _will_ keep the peace in the Lord Marshal’s household.  A peace that was becoming increasingly tenuous during our last weeks with the Armada.  Avalyn delighted in taunting Nadie, and Nadie, having no sense of humor, rose to the bait on each occasion.  Worse, Zetty was beginning to follow Avalyn’s lead.  Their games might have dissolved into open warfare if the Beast hadn’t noticed the small packet of saurin pulp that _someone_ secreted inside Nadie’s cryotube.  As it was, even frozen, her allergy to the fruit broke her out in such terrible hives that I feared we’d have to wake Tomoetu to heal her.

Since only our small household is aware of Nadie’s allergy, it is not difficult to guess that that _someone_ sits at the table with me, calmly drinking her tea.  Despite what Nadie might have suffered, and my commitment to keeping the peace, the prospect of finding out which one of them it was, and turning her over to the Beast for whatever punishment he metes out, has no appeal.

I cannot help but hope that all three of them choose to go their own ways.

Steeling myself to give Nadie a few more minutes, and to be patient with her when she arrives, I take a sip of my tea.

A bright voice makes me lift my head.

“Well, if it isn’t the trollop.  How’re you this fine Furyan morning, trollop?”

I smile over my shoulder at the woman leaning in the doorway.  With the grin that seems a permanent fixture, Elkie straightens and strolls into the room.  Her movements remind me so strongly of the Beast it makes my heart leap.

“Come in,” I say warmly.  “I’ve graduated to slut today.  These are my fellow trollops, Avalyn and Zetany.”  I nod at each of them in turn and have to control my laughter for fear of spilling my tea.  Their faces are a study.  “And the one hiding in the shadows over there is my Handmaiden, Nazya.”

Elkie acknowledges each woman in turn.  Her sparkling eyes linger speculatively on Nazya before returning to me.

“And _the Bride_?  Where’s she?  Not invited to the tea party?”

“Indisposed,” I answer, thinking of Shirah’s dramatic exit at breakfast.

“Ah,” Elkie says, an expression that, like many of the Beast’s, seems to cover a multitude of eventualities.

“Would you like some tea?”  I offer, ignoring Avalyn’s raised eyebrow and Zetany’s open surprise.  Morning tea is sacrosanct for me.  I usually only share it with the Beast or my fellow concubines.

“Don’t mind if I do,” Elkie says.  She glances at the expressions of the women on either side of me and gives me a wry grin as she accepts a cup of tea.  “I’m, ah, honored.”

“You’re welcome.”  I settle back onto my couch and watch her over the rim of my own cup.

Elkie sips cautiously, then appreciatively.  I’ve given her Gauvray Black, a favorite of the Beast’s.  Furyans share many tastes, it seems.

“Sooo,” Elkie says, stretching her long, black-clad legs in front of her.  “Shirah’s sulking in her cabin, huh?”

I smile into my cup.  “You could put it that way.”

“Maybe Callum’ll offer her a shoulder to cry on.  You have to wish he’d offer her more.  I’ve never met anyone so in need of a good humpin’.”

“You haven’t met Nadie,” Avalyn says.

Elkie lifts a dark eyebrow at Avalyn, who snorts into her tea.

“Lyn—”  I say softly, but with tangible reproof.

As if on cue, I catch a flash of bright red out of the corner of my eye, and Nadie makes her entrance.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says carelessly.  “The Lord Marshal had need of me.”

Since I left the Beast sleeping peacefully, and I can still feel the rhythms of his dreaming mind through my Collar, I know that is a lie.  Sweet Xia, the woman is a trial.

“Really?” Avalyn says, and from her snide tone I can tell I will not like what will follow.  “First he makes you late, Li, and then you, Nadie.  Should Zetty and I feel left out?”

“Enough,” I say to her.

Nadie shoots a venomous glare at Avalyn, and I hasten to keep the peace.

“Nadie, this is Elkie.  Elkie, this is Nadie.”

“Charmed,” Elkie drawls.  “Am I in your chair?”

Elkie makes no move to rise, and Zetany makes a strangled snorting noise that sounds suspiciously like a giggle she’s had to swallow.

“Something wrong with your tea?”  I ask her pointedly.

“No, Lady.”  Zetany keeps her head bowed so I cannot see her expression, but I suspect she’s hiding a grin.

“Nazya, would you be so kind as to find Nadie a chair?”

Were it any but Nadie, Nazya would have anticipated this request and provided a chair already.  But Nadie has not made a friend of my Handmaiden, either.

I sigh.  Although I occasionally missed the company of others during our long journey to Furya, life was simpler when it was just the two of us.

“I see there have been some changes while we slept,” Nadie says, flicking her fingers at me, as she sinks into the chair Nazya provides.  She neither acknowledges nor thanks my Handmaiden.  With a nod, I do both.

“Could you be any less discrete?”  Avalyn glares at Nadie and glances meaningfully at Elkie.

I touch Avalyn’s knee.  “It’s all right.  Elkie is—”  I look to the Furyan.  “—a friend?”

Elkie lifts her teacup to me the way she would a glass of liquor.  “Definitely.”

“The Lord Marshal called her a mercenary,” Zetany says.

“I am, darlin’,” Elkie responds without hesitation.  “Don’t you have any merc girlfriends?”

Zetany turns pink.  “No.”

Elkie tsks softly.  “What d’you Necros do for fun?”

Thinking of what the Beast and I have been doing for the last three months, I grin.  “We are a very . . . intimate . . . people.  We make friends rarely.  And always for life.”

“’Til UnderVerse come?”  Elkie asks, and that sardonic humor, so like the Beast’s, sharpens her honey voice.

“Not anymore,” Avalyn says softly.

“Getting back to the point,” Nadie interjects.  “What are you going to do, Liaden?”

I blink at her innocently while I prepare another cup of tea.  Rowela peel and nettle.  Full of Vitamin C.  That should satisfy Tomoetu.  But how I miss the stronger flavors of Gauvray Black or Mandorecki Gold.

“Having the baby is usual,” Zetany suggests.

Nadie rolls her eyes at my protégé.  “Don’t be so stupid, Zetty.  She can’t keep it.”

Despite my resolve to be patient with her, I feel my irritation growing.  “Can’t I?”

Nadie’s eyes drop, disdainfully, to my belly.  “Necromongers don’t breed.”

“Furyans do,” Elkie says brightly.  “We love babies.  Lots and lots of babies to fill up that big empty world down there.”  She nods at the huge lens in the wall, with its dramatic view of the planet.  “Me, I’m hopin’ for twins.  Maybe triplets.”

“There you go,” Zetany adds unnecessarily.  I shoot her a quelling glance.

“And are you a Furyan now, Liaden?”  Nadie asks pointedly.  “Have you turned your back on Damalis?”

She would be shocked to see what exactly is on my back.  I’m tempted to show her, and explain what the three _di’an_ marks mean.  But it’s a petty temptation, and I quash it firmly.  “I am my Lord Marshal’s Concubine.  First, last and always.  And _he_ is Furyan.”

Nadie’s face blazes as brightly as her hair for a moment.  Oh, how she hates to be reminded that I am a true Concubine, bound to my lord body and soul, where she has only a hollow title.  I should feel sympathy for her.  The Beast left me in the same limbo for a time.  Vowless.  His in name but no more.

But he only did it to break me of my servitude to Damalis and to the Necromonger way.  Whereas he leaves Nadie vowless because he cares nothing for her.  He respects Avalyn, and shows Zetany a rough, brotherly affection, but Nadie he ignores.  Not pointedly.  Not cruelly.  But with utter indifference.

The thought brings a trickle of sympathy, and I moderate my response.  “We come to a new world.  We will need to learn new ways.  All of us.”

“And you’ll lead the way?”  Nadie asks with ill-concealed spleen.

Tiresome woman.  Xia, give me patience.

“I will do as Riddick asks.”

Avalyn shifts in her chair.  “Li, will he – will he ask the same of all of us?”

I shake my head to reassure her.  I understand the source of her concern.  She confessed it to me shortly after the Beast chose her.  Avalyn converted after the fall of Aquilia to remain with and protect her younger brother, but she was never a Necromonger in her heart.  And she never submitted to the sterilization procedure.

“Riddick chose you as his concubines when we were part of the Armada and he saw the need.  That need has now passed.  If you choose to stay with him on Furya, you are welcome in his house.  But if you choose to go another way, you have his blessing.”

Beside me, Avalyn lets out an almost inaudible sigh of relief.  Zetany stares down into her tea, frowning, and I cannot tell what she thinks.

“ _He_ says this?”  Nadie asks caustically.

My sympathy at an end, I arch an eyebrow at her.  “You’re welcome to ask him yourself.  He was still sleeping when I left him but doubtless he would not mind being awakened for something so important.”

Caught in her lie, Nadie colors furiously.  But she holds my eyes.  A challenge is forming there.  A true challenge, which she has never posed before.  She has pursued the Beast relentlessly, her determination to seduce him seemingly fueled by his disregard.  But she has left me out of it, pretending to ignore my existence as long as I let her.  Until now.

“If we want to stay,” Zetany begins in a small voice.  “Is it really okay?”

I pat her arm gently.  “Of course it is.  You know it is.”

“Well, I, for one, don’t go back on the vows that I’ve made,” Nadie says, and I have to bite back the comment I would dearly like to make.  She has made no vow to the Beast, although she certainly tried on a number of occasions.  The Beast has made me laugh many times with stories of her persistence.

“Which vow was that?” Avalyn asks flatly.  “‘I swear to follow you around like a bitch in heat’?”

“Enough,” I say sharply.  “Nadie is free to stay or go as she pleases.  And you are free to do the same.”

Avalyn looks stricken.  “I didn’t mean it that way.  You know I didn’t . . .”  She sets down her tea cup and reaches out to me.  “I’ll miss you.”

I hug her close, ignoring the awkwardness of reaching across my belly.  “You will always be the sister of my heart,” I whisper to her.  “I will take it very badly if I don’t see a great deal of you.”

Nadie snorts and rises from her chair.  “How sentimental.  If that’s all, Liaden?”

I keep my arm around Avalyn’s shoulders as I look up at Nadie.  I’ve had enough of her, and even if she remains part of the Beast’s household, I do not have to suffer her company any longer.  “It is.  Thank you for joining us, Nadie, if belatedly.  I think this is the last of these teas you need attend.  No doubt you will be much occupied in the days ahead.”

Nadie’s mouth works, but no sound comes out for long moments.  “Fine,” she says finally.  “It’s been a pleasure.”  She swishes her hair like a fiery mantle around her shoulders before stalking out.

“Good riddance,” Elkie murmurs into her tea.

I shake my head at myself and give Avalyn’s shoulders a squeeze.  Perhaps I have been unfair, and unkind, to Nadie.  She has done nothing more offensive than lust after the Beast, a sin with which I am more than passingly familiar.  I should simply ignore her.  But the woman rubs me the wrong way.

“What about us?” Zetany asks.  “Can we still come?”

I smile at her.  “Of course.  How dull would it be to have tea on my own?”

She frowns and swirls her tea, again without spilling it, which impresses me.  Maybe cryosleep has improved her dexterity.  “You wouldn’t be on your own.  Lots of people would come if you asked them.”

What is wrong with her today?  My protégé is usually the soul of exuberance.  “Zetany, I _have_ asked you.  And you are always welcome at my table.  But I would understand if you wanted to have your own someday.”

“Well I don’t!”  She says heatedly, and when she looks up, I see tears in her eyes.

“Zetty—” I reach out, not understanding the source of her upset, but she puts down her teacup with the unmistakable crack of ceramic and runs from the room.

Avalyn turns in my arms to watch the other girl go.  “I’ll talk to her,” she says, rising and following Zetany out.

I sit back on the chaise and pick up my own cup.  “That went well,” I murmur to myself.

Elkie chuckles.  “You can’t blame them.  No one wants to be kicked out of your glittery little circle.”

I raise an eyebrow.  “Glittery?”

“Oh come on, Liaden.”  She stretches out her legs and crosses them at the ankle.  The gesture must be genetic.  “I was watching you two at dinner last night.  You and Riddick cast a glow.  You’re so gone on each other that it reflects on everyone around you.  People like that; they want to be around you.”

“A glow?”  I have to laugh at how wrong she is.  “Do you know what I was called when I served Riddick’s predecessor?  The Gray One.”

Elkie waves a hand lazily.  “Glitter by association, then.”

“I thought that was guilt.”

“Whatever, you get my meaning.  People’re drawn to you.  They’ve always been drawn to Riddick, I suspect.  Some of the stories about him.”  She shakes her head and I long to ask, to hear about the past that he will not share with me.  But that would mean admitting that he keeps it concealed, and I will not expose such a weakness.  “So, he’s the Lord Marshal.  I shoulda put that together before.  You keep what you kill, right?”

“That is our creed.  You seem to know a great deal about Necromongers for an unbeliever.”

She winks at me.  “Know thy enemy.”

“Are we, your enemy?”  I ask her earnestly.

She laughs.  “Liaden, honey, I’d have a real hard time killin’ you.  Necromonger or no.  And that’s the truth.”

My eyes drop to the pulse blaster she wears at her hip.  Perhaps we’ve made a mistake letting the Furyans keep their weapons.  But the Beast is more wary than I, and if he allowed Elkie to remain armed, he must believe she is not a threat.

Following my gaze, Elkie whips the small pistol out of its holster and offers it to me.  I take it and turn the weapon over in my hands.

“Nice, huh?  Smitty Ninety-two.  Eight phased light rounds a second.  Gotten me out of a lot of ugly spots.  Can I see that knife of yours?”

I take Hannelore out of her sheath and offer her to Elkie hilt first.

“Mm, nice,” Elkie says appreciatively.  She flips the knife around between her long fingers, spins it on her palm.  “Unusual metal.  Well balanced.  Good size for you, too.”  She looks up at me, her dark eyes twinkling.  “Lemme guess.  This is a gift from Riddick, isn’t it?”

I rub my temple ruefully and put her gun on the low table between us.  “I wonder if you know how like him you are.”

Her eyebrows rocket up towards her white crest of hair.  “Am I?  Well that has . . . possibilities.”  She waggles her eyebrows at me and I wonder what she could mean.  “So, are we?”

“Are we what?”

“Friends?”

I cross my legs, something I will not be able to do for much longer, I fear, and smooth my skirt over my thigh while I search for an answer.  “I’d like to be,” I say hesitantly.

“’Cause I’d like to say somethin’, but it’s only somethin’ I’d say to a friend, not the _Lord Marshal’s Concubine_.”

She has learned a very great deal about us in a very short time, and it makes me wary, despite the growing affection I feel towards her.  “Very well.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You got any idea of what Shirah’s plannin’?  Riddick tell you anything about this Hunt?”

I shake my head uncertainly.

“It’s a old Furyan ritual.  Bet Cawl couldn’t even tell you the last time it’s been done.  Trust Shirah to resurrect somethin’ that shoulda been forgotten just to fuck with everyone’s head.”

I nod and press my fingers to my belly where the worm of worry has started to coil again.

“So this is the deal with _the Bride_.  Shirah’s the last surviving descendant of the old Furyan ruling house.  Whoever marries her—”

“—rules,” I say, supplying the obvious.

“Right.  But here’s the catch.  Whoever wants to marry her has to prove they’re worthy of ruling.  An’ that means fightin’.  To the death.”

“Over Shirah’s hand.”

Elkie lifts the dagger in a mock salute.  “You catch on quick, darlin’.”

I touch my fingertips to my forehead while I try to think through the ramifications of what she has said.  “But she said she’d submit to Riddick without more if he’d accept the mantle of Furyor.”

“Did she?”  Elkie spins Hannelore between her fingers, the keen edge breaking the light into splinters that glint in her eyes.  “Not sure I’d believe that, if I were Riddick.  He’s killed a race enemy, which makes him a shoo-in for Furyor.  But Shirah’s still got the right to make any male who wants to marry her fight for her.  My money’s on a Hunt.”

So is the Beast’s, I realize, remembering his words to Shirah in the dining hall.  Why hasn’t he told me any of this?

Elkie leans forward, propping her elbows on her knees.  “So, you gonna keep your boy out of this race?”

Will I need to?  “Riddick wants no part of it.”

“No?”  Elkie looks at me considering.  “Can I tell you somethin’, Liaden?”

“Something you’d only tell a friend?” I ask sharply, with the stomach-curdling sense that I’m being manipulated.

Elkie smiles ruefully.  “No, I’m tellin’ you this because you’re clearly in love with him, you’re carrying his baby, and it pisses me off to see Shirah fucking with that.”

The sense of being manipulated, and any irritation that went along with it, fades as I look into her eyes and see the sincerity there.  “Yes, please.”

“Riddick may think he can stay outta it.  But I can smell what Shirah’s pumpin’ out.  When she calls the Hunt, there won’t be a Furyan male in ten systems who doesn’t answer.  The only thing that’s gonna keep Riddick outta the thick of it is you.”

“Me?”

“You, darlin’.” 


	4. Chapter 4

When the Beast wakes, I tell him of my conversation with Elkie.  He listens in silence, his silver eyes moving back and forth under half-closed lids, a motion I know means he’s thinking, weighing, evaluating.

He says nothing when I finish, and I sit curled on the edge of our bed, my knees drawn to my chest, a position that is no longer completely comfortable, waiting for his reaction.

“I guessed a lotta that already,” he says finally.  “What I don’t get is why Elkie told you any of it.”

I rub my hands over my knees uncertainly.  I’ve told him I felt I was being manipulated at one point, but at the end she seemed wholly sincere.  “What do you think she meant about me being the only thing that would keep you out of the Hunt?”

“Dunnow.”  He shrugs.  “Except she doesn’t know shit about me.  Or you.”

“She seems to know a great deal about your past.”

“All she knows is what people said I did, Liaden.  Different thing.”  He stretches and climbs out of bed.  “An’ that shit about bein’ glittery.”  He grunts eloquently.

But Elkie’s right.  The Beast does have a certain magnetism that draws people to him.  Even if he does not see it.  And if she’s right about that, what else is she right about?

Seeing that he intends to dress, I uncurl from the bed and help him into trousers and tunic.  He wraps black bracers around his forearms and settles his weapons belt around his hips as I close the seals on his boots.  I haven’t seen him wear his armor in months, and although I understand the need for it now, seeing him put the bracers on makes me unaccountably sad.

Sensing my melancholy, he draws me close.  “That merc worryin’ you?”

“No.  You said you’d stay out of it.  And you made me swear to stay out of it.”  I look up at him through my hair and he grins.  Unrepentant tyrant.  “I’m just—”

“Worryin’.”

“Yes.”

“C’mere.”  He tucks me into his chest and holds me, stroking my hair.  “Shouldn’t a brought either of ‘em up here.  Thought it might shut Shirah up, meetin’ you.”

I shake my head, my hair swishing against the smooth fabric of his tunic.  “I am happier knowing what we face.”

He sighs.  “I’m orderin’ the Descent.  Now.  Before this shit has time to gather momentum.”

Seeing the wisdom of a speedy course of action, I nod.

“Liaden, look at me.”

I do, meeting his eyes squarely and trying to banish all fears from my gaze.

“You okay?”

Standing in his arms, with the warmth and strength of him around me, nothing could be wrong.  If only I could stay here forever . . .

“Yes.”

“You ready for the Descent?”

I begin running through my mental checklist.  “Almost.  I said I’d meet Thaniel and look over the plant samples—”

“They’re still in cold store, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then they’ll keep,” he says dismissively.  “You stay with me.  C’mon.”

“But—”

He ignores my protests and drags me with him to the command chamber.  It is already a flurry of activity.  Sanjula and another pilot hang in their slings, their faces illuminated by the lenses that feed the complex navigation data directly into their cerebral cortexes.  Technicians buzz around the pilots, checking subsystems and coordinating the activity of the smaller ships.  Daray speaks into a lens that holds Tirea’s image, while Vaako and three other officers listen.

They are all so busy that no one even glances at us when we enter.  Vaako registers the Beast’s presence with a nod as we draw close.

“Ready on your command,” Vaako says tersely.

“Let’s blow the bad tank first.”

“It’s being done as we speak, my Lord,” says the officer who is Tirea’s companion.

The Beast nods and moves toward the huge central lens.  Feeling adrift in this hive of purposeful activity, I trail after him.

Standing together, we watch a long silver cylinder shoot out of the ship in a cloud of vapor.  It tumbles end over end across Furya’s green face.  The Beast releases my hand for a moment to lower his goggles over his eyes.  Then the control room lights up in a brilliant white flash.  I turn my face into the Beast’s shoulder to protect my eyes, and when I look back, there’s nothing but Furya’s serene green surface before us.

“Good job, Daray, Sirel,” the Beast says quietly.  He lifts his goggles and passes his hand across the lens, which flickers from the view of Furya to reflect his own face.  “Descent protocol.”

I imagine the controlled chaos in the decks below us as everyone hastily finishes what they were doing and moves to the secondary ships that will bear us to the surface.  In my mind’s eye, I see stationary islands in the flow of movement.  Confused, isolated islands.

“Riddick, the Furyans.  They won’t know what to do,” I say.

The Beast’s mouth tightens.  “Kerriget.”  He beckons to a technician.  “Find the Furyans and get them to a ship—”

“Who, Lord Marshal?”  The man’s befuddled expression displays his complete ignorance.

“Riddick, he doesn’t know who they are.  No one does.”  I’m the only one who has been introduced to each of them.  “I’ll find them.”

“No,” he growls.

“I’ll go, Lord Marshal.”  Vaako says unexpectedly.

“I can’t spare you.  All right, Liaden.  Five minutes.  Then I want you back here.”

Flushed with a sense of purpose, I nod.  I make my way through the fray of officers and technicians, gathering my skirt with one hand so it doesn’t interfere with my stride.  Five minutes is barely long enough to check the officer’s cabins.  If they are not there . . .

A hand on my elbow stops me, spins me around.

The Beast’s eyes flash in the green-lit gloom of the control center before he gathers me to him and kisses me.  His mouth is soft, a brush of heated skin.  Then he sinks into me, mouth opening, teeth and tongue touching mine.  His hands spread across my back, arcing my body to his.  Overcoming my initial surprise, I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him back with fervor.

He breaks the kiss finally and lets me drop back onto my heels.  He shapes my face with his hand, looking at me with such intensity that it should scorch.  Why this sudden intensity?  “Hurry up,” he says.

I rise to my toes to press a quick kiss against his mouth.  “I will, my love.”

He nods and steps back, letting me go.

 

I find the Furyans not in their cabins but in the mess hall.  With the singlemindedness and focus on self-preservation I have seen from the Beast so many times, they sit and eat, ignoring the frenzied activity around them as Chef and his helpers move the last of the galley equipment.

Even gathered together at table, they are strangely separate.  They do not speak to each other, do not touch or interact.  Elkie says something to her crewman, Bengt, and he laughs, but the others sit silent, distant.

Cawl notices me first, his dark eyes piercing the haze of smoke that roils around his head from a burning stump he has clamped between his teeth.  Three ship bots cluster on the ceiling above him and I wonder if he’s aware of what’s about to descend on him.

He stabs the butt out on the table just before the bots spray him with foam.  “Back for more, girl?” he growls.

“Indeed, grandfather,” I say, drawing close.  “Would you care to accompany me to a ship?”

“Somethin’ wrong with this one?”

“Other than it’s about to drop through the atmosphere and deliquesce inside a rock face, no.”  I smile sweetly.  “If you wish to stay, of course, you will have an excellent view . . .”

Cawl laughs, a harsh, broken cough of sound that shares only passing acquaintance with mirth.  I wonder when, and why, he has forgotten how to laugh.

He rises and the other Furyans, who have watched and listened to this exchange, follow.

Except Shirah.

“Where is Riddick?” she demands.

“On the command deck.”

“Take me to him.”  She rises from her seat and stands facing me.

Since that is where I am taking them all, I incline my head to her.  “As you wish.  Follow me.”

I turn from her and find Cawl offering me his arm, his grin gone wicked.

“Thank you, grandfather,” I say as I thread my arm through his and lead the Furyans out of the dining hall.

“Told you to stop callin’ me that.”

“Of course, grandfather.”

He laughs again.  “Yeah, I see why he likes you.  You really come from Addeus?”

I shake my head.  The Daixian homeworld was consumed by Xia’s wrath years before I was born.  “I was born on Marcin’s Planet, after Addeus was destroyed.”

“Eh?  You look older.  When’d you become a Necro?”

“I was nineteen standard.”

“Didn’t know Marcin’s Planet fell to them.  Figured it was too small a system for the fuckers to go after.”

Although I was not on Marcin’s Planet when it fell, my family having moved to Tarenge with one of the more radical Diaxian splinter groups shortly after I was born, I know from the histories that it was not overlooked.  “Lord Zhylaw did not feel any system beneath his notice.”

“And this is what you let touch you, Cawl,” Shirah says sharply from behind us.

“Spare us,” Elkie mutters.

“Open your eyes, you twit,” Cawl growls over his shoulder at Shirah.  “She’s not one of ‘em.”

I try not to beam at Cawl as I lead him along the along the main corridor to the command chamber.  “And you, grandfather?  Where have you lived since Furya fell?”

“Here and there.  Coliston mostly.”

A system known for little other than its lack of military technology.  Zhylaw planned to conquer it on the way to destroying the Galinites.  He did not expect significant resistance.  “Why Coliston?”

Cawl works his lips over his teeth for a moment before answering.  “Didn’t want to be found.”

I open the command center airlock and gesture the Furyans inside.  Cawl waits politely beside me while they file inside, and escorts me through.

“I’m glad you changed your mind, grandfather,” I say quietly as I pass my hand over the lens to close the airlock behind us.

“Yeah, me, too.”  He takes my hand off his arm and holds it out to someone who looms behind me.  “Here you go, boy.”

With a deep rumble, the Beast takes my hand and tucks me against his side.

“You brought ‘em here?” he growls at me.

“Where would you prefer?  I wasn’t sure which other ships had room.”

The Beast favors the eight Furyans who have followed me with a hard silver glance.  “Stay in the back, outta the way.”

“Riddick, I would speak with you—”  Shirah begins.

“Later,” the Beast growls, and it is a tone that brooks no argument, even from Shirah.

He turns and draws me into the flurry of activity at the front of the chamber.

“Oh, good, you’re back,” Daray says as we approach.  “He was beginning to pine.”

It takes me a moment to realize that Daray is speaking to me, and teasing the Beast.  I glance up at the Beast, uncertain how he will receive this, but he merely smiles.

“Now we can focus on the matter at hand,” Vaako says.  He sounds sour and I shift a little closer to the Beast.  There are times when Vaako treats me as a friend, and times when my very existence seems to annoy him.  This is, evidently, one of the latter times.

“Separate the ship,” the Beast says.

“Ready for separation on my mark,” Daray says.  “Three, two, one, mark.”

With the faintest tremor, the command center slides away from the rest of the dreadnought.  In the central lens, the titanic spindle of the ship appears, receding, until its tapered length is framed within the lens.  Within the head-shaped section we ride, small hissings mark the extension of atmosphere wings.

“Report.  Other ships ready?” the Beast asks and I feel the web of command beginning to spin out around us as he mobilizes his fleet.

“Almost, Lord Marshal,” a technician replies.

As if in response to his query, smaller ships begin to rise from the spindle’s length.  One, two, then a swarm.  When only one ship remains clinging to the spindle like a mollusk, the Beast nods.  “Flood the ship.”

I hold my breath.  This is the only part we have not practiced.  Could not practice.  The wholescale distribution of navellium through the ship’s extensive passageways.  I watch the small lens that shows Tirea’s image as she and her team open the tanks and begin pumping the glistening, namite-laced fluid into the ship’s ducts.  Immediately, a strange hissing comes from a grille in the wall above where Tirea and her two technicians work.  She looks up and her eyes follow wisps of smoke rising from the duct.

“Evac,” she says.  “Now.  Everyone out.”

The tension in the command center rises perceptibly.  I am not as familiar with the dangers of the navellium as those who stand around me, but I understand enough to know that if the namites do not remain within their program parameters, they could quickly engulf Tirea and her crew.

And no one wants to find out what would happen then.

The Beast reaches out and closes a huge hand on the shoulder of Tirea’s companion, who stares, stricken, at the small lens.  “She’ll be okay.”

A moment later, the last ship shoots away from the spindle.  I hear the relief in Daray’s voice when he says, “Tirea’s team’s away.  Navellium saturation at sixty percent and rising.”

“Descent protocol,” the Beast commands.

The spindle tilts until its narrow, heavily shielded tip points at the green globe below.

“Take a last look,” the Beast says.

I do, filling my eyes with the grandeur of the two planets and distant star against the velvet blackness of space.

Then we plummet after the spindle.  The Beast wraps his arm around me and braces us against a console when Furya’s thick atmosphere buffets the ship.  Ahead of us, the spindle glows bright orange with friction, and tongues of plasma lick along its length.  Within the spindle, I know from listening to hours of discussion between the Beast and his commanders, the heat will activate the namites and they will begin to multiply exponentially, permeating the carbon hull, preparing for the spindle’s contact with Furya’s bedrock, when the namites’ real work will begin.

The spindle cuts a blazing path through thick, white cloud.  When the vista opens beneath us, turquoise-green water stretches to the horizon.  The spindle arrows toward a darker blot against all that green, a burning splinter launched from the heavens to spear the virgin world below.

The dark blot spreads, grows, takes on shape and form.  A spine of black mountains.  Stretches of rocky cliff where the viridian sea breaks and foams.  Waving fields of greenery.

The spindle angles over the landscape, heading back towards the emerald expanse of open ocean.  Just as I am convinced of disaster, that the spindle will plunge into the waves and be lost, the ground suddenly rises into a cliff.  The spindle arcs sharply and slams into the earth.  The narrow tip, super-heated by our descent through the atmosphere, cleaves through soil and rock until the entire burnished metal length disappears into the ground.

Disrupted matter explodes from the cliff face with the force of the impact, rising to stain the sky, falling to spray the dark dunes below.  Water erupts from a river that flows over the cliff edge in a sinuous fall, soaking the flying dirt and pelting our ship with mud.  Through streaks and spatters, we watch the land heave as the shock of the spindle’s penetration spreads across the clifftops.  Foliage whips as though driven by a hurricane.  Trees topple, uprooted from the pitching ground; cracks and fissures spout steam before being quenched by cascades of mud.

So focused am I on the tumult below that I barely hear the scream rising behind me.

“Noooooo!”

Shirah launches herself at the Beast, hands raised like claws.

I meet her before she ever reaches him.  My open palm slams into her chest, stopping her headlong rush.  She staggers back into a technician and I spin, using my momentum to deliver a backhand blow that drops her to the floor.  Ignoring the pain that shoots across my belly from the muscle I pulled earlier, I settle into a defensive stance in front of the Beast.  I yank my pins from their holders in the shoulder seams of my gown and hold them crossed in front of me, at the ready.

With a roar, Callum springs at me.

A huge arm wraps around my hips and drags me out of the charging Furyan’s path.  I swing at Callum’s unprotected back, and feel the tip of my pin gouge a deep furrow through layers of leather to the flesh beneath.  Callum grunts with pain and stumbles back.

Tasting blood, the head of my pin splits into its soul-sucking howl.

“Enough!”  The Beast sets me down and puts his arm across me. 

At his command, I curl my fingers around the head of the pin, silencing it with my flesh and the force of my will.  But I do not put either pin away.

Shirah stares up at me from the floor, her hand on her cheek.  She will wear my mark there tomorrow, but she got off lightly.  If I’d been able to put my entire strength behind the blow, she would be cradling a broken cheekbone, at the very least.

“She struck me,” she says shakily.  With the back of her hand, she blots blood off her mouth.

And I will again.  If Shirah dares threatens the man I protect.

Callum helps her up from the floor and stands with his arms around her.  I eye him darkly.  Callum’s burly protection will not save her.  A nightshade dart, or Hannelore’s keen edge, in her eye would render all that muscle meaningless.

“Show over, kiddies?”  Elkie asks, coming to stand behind Shirah, hands on her hips.

“How could you?”  Shirah asks the Beast, pointing at the dust-shrouded cliff framed in the viewer.  “How could you do that to our world?  Have you no soul?”  Tears well in her eyes but do not spill.

“You knew what I was,” the Beast growls.  “An’ next time you decide to come at my back, better make sure Liaden’s not in the way.”

He puts his arm around me and deliberately turns away.  I settle against his side, but I keep my eyes on the woman behind us, and keep my pins in my hands.

Callum ushers Shirah toward the rear of the ship and speaks softly to her, sheltering her from my stare with his huge shoulder.  One of her hands slips around his side to touch the bleeding gash in his back.  He shrugs her off at first, but when she touches him again, he allows her to turn him around and see to the wound.

“Report,” the Beast says, refocusing attention on the task at hand.  “Status.”

“All ships standing by, Lord Marshal,” Tirea’s companion, Sirel, says.

“Navellium’s stabilizing.  Design fifty percent complete.”  Daray hovers over a small console studded with lenses showing the interior of the spindle.  Within those lenses, shapes shift and flow.

“Let’s take a look,” the Beast says.  He slides his goggles down over his eyes before he adds, “Light ‘er up.”

Vaako passes his hand over a lens and spotlights stab through the dusty murk to illuminate the cliff face.

The long spine of the spindle protrudes from the rock from the top of the cliff to its base thirty meters below.  Around that spine, for fifty meters on either side, the rock rolls and swells like a living thing.  Dark grey veins weave through the rock as the navellium creates pathways for heat, water, power.  More regular shapes emerge from the chaos of roiling rock: the outlines of enclosed spaces that will become living quarters, recreation areas, labs, common spaces.  Bubbles rise through the rock, swelling into lenses that look out on the mud-spattered beach.  Each lens grants its own piecemeal view into the gray chaos that swirls within.

“Eighty percent complete,” Daray says.

The lenses studding the rock blink and then glow, casting their light back at us, as the fusion powerplant in the spindle’s tip comes on-line.  A cheer goes up among the technicians, echoed tinnily in the lenses that link us to the other ships of our small armada.

“Ninety percent complete,” Daray reports.

“Join us back up,” the Beast orders.

“Yes, Lord Marshal.”  The technicians begin buzzing between the pilots again and the ship banks through the dust clouds.  We circle, and the view in the lens revolves wildly.

With a soft shudder, the command center settles onto the top of the spindle where it protrudes from the cliff top.

And the reunited Conquest Icon of the Necromongers stares out over a dust-shrouded Furyan beach.

I rest my cheek against the Beast’s shoulder and when he looks down at me, give him a smile.  “You’ve done it,” I whisper to him.

“What have you done?”  Shirah asks, her voice still choked with tears.

“Made us a new home,” the Beast answers without looking at her.  “Let’s go take a look.”

 

Tirea and her crew join us as we explore the contours of our new home.  Her smile of pride is, if possible, wider than the Beast’s.  Where he and I simply peer into the new spaces, she runs a portable lens over the walls and floors, testing the stability of the namites that have rearranged the shattered rock into preprogrammed structures.  Only once does she frown and thrust a probe into a section of corridor wall that looks oddly spongy.  Blue sparks jump from the probe, and the wall immediately solidifies.

We make our way slowly down from the command center at the top of the new Habitable, which I have already heard our people referring to as Zibon, the Reborn.  The upper floors are devoted to working areas: technicians’ labs, the Weavers’ huge vat rooms, an armory that the Beast inspects with a proprietary grin.  On the second level, we peer into the huge new dining hall and adjoining kitchens and find them already abuzz with activity as Chef and his helpers reassemble the galley they so recently dismantled.

On the third level, where living quarters circle the garden we’ve transplanted from the Basilica, we’re reunited with Ctyren and his parents, Tihamner and Natane.  They’ve ridden out the descent in the protected bubble of the garden, but seem shaken by their experience.  Ctyren rubs himself frantically against our legs and follows the Beast so closely when we leave the garden that the Beast finally trips over him.

I expect the Beast to snap at the lupinarus.  Instead, he squats down to the cub’s eye level and scratches his jaw scales affectionately.  “Rough ride, pup?”

Ctyren rumbles madly, thrusting his face into the Beast’s hands, his scaly body writhing in a paroxysm of delight.

The Beast spends several minutes soothing the lupinarus.  When he finally rises, the cub trots sedately at his heels as we make our way to our living quarters.

The sanctum itself, a copy of the octagonal chamber we left behind on the Basilica, is unchanged except for the addition of a huge lens on one wall that looks out over the dust-veiled beach.  The antechambers, too, look unchanged and I see with relief that the clothes hanging in my and the Beast’s wardrobes have not been molested by the namites.  I didn’t relish the thought of wearing the same gown for several weeks until Tirea and her Weavers could make new ones for everyone, if the namites failed to distinguish between cloth and rock.

There are two new doors in the sanctum’s walls, however, that I open curiously.

They both lead to short corridors.  I follow one into an unfamiliar suite of rooms.  I don’t remember these rooms on the plans I saw.  As the Beast and I survey the new rooms, Caden and Nazya join us.

“Suit you?” the Beast asks Caden.

“Yes, Lord Riddick.  Just as you said.”

I frown at the three of them.  No one bothered to tell me that Caden and Nazya would be living just down the hall.  With a sigh, I let my irritation evaporate.  It is a practical and convenient arrangement.

“Have you seen it, mistress?” Nazya asks, her dark eyes shining.

“Seen what?”

She throws Riddick a conspiratorial grin and leads me back through the sanctum and down the other corridor.

It ends in a suite of three rooms.  Two have small lenses that overlook the beach, while the third is clearly a bath.  The rooms are unfurnished, as with most of the newly designed spaces, and it is only the color that makes me realize what they are.

The walls of the three rooms are tinted rosy pink.

“Is this . . . a nursery?” I ask.

Nazya claps in an outburst of most un-Nazya-like delight.  “Do you like it?”

“I do,” I say, putting a hand to my belly and looking around in wonder.  The baby will sleep in this space, play here, perhaps learn to crawl on the very floor where I stand.

The pink walls suddenly whirl, and I find myself abruptly sitting on the floor.

“Li.”  The Beast is beside me in an instant, brushing aside the anxious lupinarus, who tries to wriggle into my lap.

“Mistress!” Nazya cries.  Then she’s all firm authority.  “This is too much for you.  You should be resting.”

“I’m not an invalid,” I snap.

The Beast chuckles.  “Too bad.”  He scoops me up and carries me back into the sanctum.  There, he settles me on our bed while Nazya fusses around me.

“The galley won’t be ready yet,” she says.  “But I’ll have Chef bring you something.  You should have had more than tea before—”

“Nazya—” I do my best imitation of the Beast’s warning growl.  But it has no effect and before I can protest, she’s removed my boots and tucked me under the bed’s fur cover.

The Beast leans against one of the bed’s carved posts, his arms crossed over his chest, and watches with a wry grin.  “An’ I thought you were bad.”

Nazya rounds on him, her hands on her hips.  “Don’t you have a world to conquer?”

He holds up his hands in mock surrender and begins to move away from the bed.

“Wait, Riddick—”  I don’t want to let him out of my sight.  Not with Shirah’s threat so recent.

He returns and leans over me.  “Yeah?”

“I—” Asking him to stay is as pointless as trying to stop Nazya’s fussing.  He has too many demands on his time to remain at my bedside.  “Would you . . . take Caden with you?  And Ctyren.”

“Yeah.”  With a smile, he bends down and brushes his mouth across my forehead.  “Back in an hour.”  He gives an exaggerated yawn.  “Could do with a nap.”

A nap?  He never naps.  He does sometimes drag me to bed in the middle of the day, but it is not to sleep.  Amused, I shake my head at him.

“She needs rest, not sex,” Nazya says tartly.

The Beast throws back his head and roars with laughter.  “She can rest after sex.  See you in an hour.”  He snaps his fingers at the lupinarus sprawled across the bottom of the bed and beckons Caden after him as he strides out of the sanctum.

With both Caden and Ctyren protecting him, I should not worry about him.

But I do.

“Shirah tried to attack him,” I tell Nazya as she piles pillows behind my back.

“Why?”

“I’m not sure,” I begin, but then admit the truth, both to Nazya and myself.  “I think she saw our Descent as a violation of her world.”

Nazya shrugs.  “It’s our world now.  And Descent is always like that.”

I nod, but wonder what it must have been like to watch through Shirah’s eyes.  She would have been a child when the Necromonger ships came the first time.  Did she watch them?  Does she remember?  A small current of sympathy ripples through me before I quash it.  She attacked the Beast.  I can have no sympathy for her.

“Caden will watch over him,” Nazya says comfortingly.  “I still haven’t met her.  What’s she like?”

I sigh.  “Proud.  Arrogant.  Aggressive.  Irritating.”

Nazya giggles.  “So, just like the Lord Marshal.”

I laugh with her.  “Very much so.”

“She sounds troublesome.  We’ll be well rid of her when they go home.”

“I’m not sure they’re going anywhere.”  I tell her of the Beast’s offer to the Furyans, and a little of what Elkie has told me.

Nazya’s brow clouds and she smoothes the fur cover unnecessarily.  “This is not a good time to have troublemakers in our midst.”

“Does trouble ever pick a convenient time?”

“No,” she sighs.  “Rest.  This has unsettled you and that’s bad for the baby—”

“Nazya, how do you know what’s bad for the baby?”  I ask in mock annoyance.  Although Nazya is as close-mouthed about her past as the Beast, I know that she was the only child of elderly parents.  She knows less, if possible, about babies than I do.

“Am I not a great seer?  I’ll bring you something to eat.”  With a final pat on the covers, she whisks away.

“Nazya, I want to talk with Thaniel before Riddick returns,” I call after her, but have no doubt she’ll ignore me.

Disgruntled, I sit back against the pillows and try not to worry.  Try not to think about the Beast walking the corridors of our new home without me at his side.  Or about the Hunt, or the Bride, or any of the unsettling things Elkie has told me.  But the worm of worry coils in my belly despite my best attempts to push it away.

I rest my hands on my distended stomach, trying to soothe away my concern.

And under my palm, I feel a distinct flutter.

 

I find the Beast in the control room with his commanders.  The pilots and technicians who filled the room with their activity during Descent have disappeared, probably to investigate our new home.  Of the Furyans, there is no sign.

The men cluster around an extrusion map.  The malleable black liquid has mounded into the shape of the long ribbon of cliff that houses us.  The Beast traces paths along the clifftop with his fingers.  “I want sweep teams here, here and here.  Shoot anythin’ that moves.  Find out what it is later.  We’re the only ones who belong here now.”

“What of the beach?” Vaako asks, circling a finger over the flats at the base of the cliff.

The Beast shakes his head.  “Tomorrow, when the dust’s settled.”  He lifts his head suddenly, scenting, and his silver eyes find me in the shadows of the airlock.  “Liaden, thought you were restin’.”

I step into the dim red light filtering into the chamber from the forward lens.  Because he is surrounded by his commanders, I sink into an obeisance, made awkward by the hand I still press against the side of my belly.

“May I beg a private word?”

The Beast nods curtly.  “Vaako, get the teams mobilized.  Coordinate positions every ten minutes.”

“Yes, Lord Marshal.”

The commanders move away from the map.  Daray winks at me as he passes.  Vaako also gives me a glance, but it is nowhere near as friendly.

“Somethin’ wrong?” the Beast asks, drawing near me.  “Told you I’d be back in an hour.”

I grab his hand and press it against my belly, afraid that if I hesitate for even a second, the movement will stop and he will have missed it.

The Beast frowns.  “That muscle still botherin’—”  He breaks off, his mouth snapping closed, as he realizes what is happening beneath his hand.

He falls to his knees in front of me.

His action is so unexpected that I take a step back, but he wraps his arm around my hips and pulls me toward him.  His hand presses firmly against my belly, and I close my eyes with joy at the tiny fluttering I can feel against that hard pressure.

“Liaden—” he breathes.

“I think the baby’s kicking—” I begin.  But I can’t complete the sentence, because he’s surging to his feet and sweeping me up into his arms and carrying me back towards our rooms with his mouth locked to mine. 


	5. Chapter 5

I am an entire day late to meet Thaniel.  Quite possibly the furthest behind in my schedule I have ever fallen.  But the Beast would not let me out of bed after he felt the baby move.  And because I know, with that knowledge that women have and men scoff at, that this is the end of the sweet days of peace we have had together while traveling, I stay cuddled with the Beast in our bed for as long as I can, and ignore the voice of guilt whispering in my ear.

When the morning light streams red and gold through our new window, I can ignore that guilty whisper no longer.  I rise reluctantly from our bed to pull on my gardening boots and a simple gown.

The Beast sits at his desk and watches me dress.  “Don’t want you going outside today,” he says.

I glance at him in surprise.  “Why?  Thaniel and I were going to lay out the garden.  Take soil samples.”

The Beast taps his lens, causing shapes and colors to whirl within.  “We’re still mopping up out there.  I don’t want you goin’ out until we’ve finished the sweeps and set up a perimeter.  We’ve already lost two men.”

Shocked, I clutch at a bedpost to steady myself as I push my foot into my boot.  “Lost?  To what?”

“Dunnow.”  He taps the lens again.  “I’ve been too busy to read the reports.”  He grins at the lens.

“Riddick—”

“Just stay inside today.  An’ if you don’t got enough with your flowers to keep you busy—”

“My flowers!”  I plant my hands on my hips.

“You can always come with me.  I’m gonna take a skimmer down to the beach.  Take a look around.”

His offer wipes away the indignation I feel over his disparagement of my garden.  He makes such offers rarely.  And with each moment I can spend with him now so precious . . . but I have so much to do.

“I’d like to,” I say softly.  “But I’ve kept Thaniel waiting since yesterday . . .”

He shrugs.  “Suit yourself.”

“You’ll be back this afternoon, won’t you?  For your bath?”  He has never adopted a daily protocol, but his afternoon bath is one constant in our lives.  That, and the certainty that we will fall asleep in each other’s arms.

“Yeah.”

Torn, and terribly tempted to take him up on his offer, I finish dressing and make my way to the lab to make my apologies to my patient botanist.

 

I expect to find Thaniel waiting, and annoyed.  I don’t expect to find him laughing.

“Thaniel?” I call when I hear his masculine laughter from behind a rack of frozen seedlings.

“Li?  Back here.”

I round the end of the long row and find Thaniel standing with Elkie.  His amber eyes spark with amusement, and her perpetual grin is wide.

“I see you’ve met,” I say warmly.  Despite my reservations about her motives, I’m still happy to see Elkie.  How can I help but like someone so like the Beast?

“I’ve been hearin’ about your terrarium,” Elkie says.  “Figured I’d take a look for myself.”

I run my hand down the freezer rack’s smooth contours fondly.  “There’s not much to see yet—”

“But there will be,” Thaniel rejoins.  “It will be a wonder to behold.”

I grin at him.  Thaniel has been unflaggingly supportive of the project since I first mentioned it to his twin, Chione, and she took me to the _Accalia_ to meet her brother, the botanist.

“If.”  He holds up a finger.  “We ever get started.  I’m glad you’re here, Li.  I won’t ask what kept you.”

I look down at my belly to hide my guilty flush.  “Forgive me—”

“Aww, don’t tease her,” Elkie says, teasingly.  “She’s allowed.  It’s not every day you feel your baby move for the first time.”

How did she know?  I glance up at Elkie, framing the question with my eyes.  But the look on her face silences me before I voice the question.  She still wears her grin, but her eyes . . . there is a universe of sadness in those hazel eyes.

“So,” she says briskly, looking away down the racks and rubbing her hands together.  “I’m kinda at loose ends today.  Anythin’ I can do to help?”

Always shorthanded, Thaniel and I jump at her offer with an alacrity that sets her laughing.

 

True to my word, I do not venture outside the Habitable that day, not until the Beast assures me that his sweep teams have cleared the area of the larger ‘locals.’  He shows me a holo when he returns from the beach, and I shiver in his lap when I see it.  Two meters long, the creature is formidably equipped with huge front claws, sharp mandibles and three sets of branching horns.  Bumpy, chitinous plates protect its segmented body, and it moves wickedly fast on its four back legs, despite its size.

“You killed one of those by yourself?” I ask, remembering his words to me in the solarium.

A deep rumble.  Pride.  “Yeah.”

“How many have the legionnaires killed?”

“Six.  But one of ‘em took down two men.”

I swallow hard and run my fingers over the lens, wiping away the monstrous image.  “What if they come back?”

“I’m still workin’ on that.  For now we got a perimeter we’re patrolling.  But I’m thinkin’ something more permanent.  Maybe a shock wall.  Vaako an’ I are workin’ on it.”

I nod with the sick realization that it will be some time before I feel safe in my own garden.

“Want you to take Ctyren with you when you go out tomorrow,’ he says.

“I will,” I promise with alacrity.  I have no interest in being caught out in the open by one of those monsters.

“An’ stay off the beach.  We’re still clearing it.”

“They hunt on the beach?”

The Beast strokes my hair and I can tell he is considering what, and how much, to tell me.  “I picked this spot because it’s got everything we want,” he says slowly.

I twist around in his lap to look up into his eyes.  “I know that.”

“Just ‘cause we got some clearin’ out to do—”

He justifies his decisions so rarely that his defensiveness takes me by surprise.  Does he think I question his choice?

I lay my palm against his cheek.  “No one doubts you.  Least of all me.  You promised us a new home.  Not an instant paradise.  We all knew that it would take hard work to make Furya livable.”

He blows a breath out through this nose.  “We lost two more men on the beach today.  Somethin’ under the sand.  Sucked ‘em down before we even got a shot off.  Until we can figure out what they are, where they are . . .”

He trails off pensively and I hasten to reassure him.  “Of course.  I’ll stay off the beach until you tell me it’s safe.”

He nods but his eyes have dulled to pewter and I can tell his thoughts are far away.  Perhaps with the four men who have followed him not to a bright future, but to untimely deaths on an alien and hostile world.

“They died quick,” he says finally.

I stroke his cheek with my fingertips and peer into his eyes.  “They died free.  Free and unafraid in this new world.  None of us fear death . . . but to live free.  That is a great gift.”

“Is it?”  His mouth purses.

“Yes, it is,” I say firmly.  “I’m not sure you can appreciate what you’ve given us.”

He looks at me sharply.  “You think I don’t know what it’s like to be caged?”

I know he has been incarcerated, and that he escaped his imprisonment, possibly more than once.  But that is not the sort of freedom I meant.  It is not the sort of freedom that he has brought to those who follow him.

“There are prisons of the flesh and there are prisons of the spirit.  You’ve been in prisons of the flesh, but I don’t believe your soul was ever caged.”

He glances away.  “Not sure I got one anymore.”

“I have never doubted it.”  I slide my arms around his neck and bury my face in the warm skin of his throat.  “And I do not believe that any of your jailers ever succeeded in shackling your soul, whatever they might have done to your body.  Only a man truly free in spirit could show others how to escape the bonds of Damalis.”

“You put those chains on yourself,” he growls, and I know that somewhere deep in him, disgust for all things Necromonger still dwells.

I nod sadly into his neck, because his words are no more than the truth.  We all chose to Convert.  And even if the only alternative was death, it was still a choice.  “You gave us a choice other than death, and that, too, is a great gift.”

He frowns.  “You really believe that?”

“I believe what I’ve always believed.  That I would rather die today, having had this short time with you, than live all my life without you.”

“That’s different.”

“Not so very much.  The men and women who have followed you here did so knowing that a life of pain awaited them.  A life that might be brutish and short, without even the promise of the UnderVerse at the end of it.  They _chose_ that.  Because you promised them freedom, and because they love you, at least a little.”  I smile against the strong, warm beat of the big vein in his throat.  “Although not as much as I do.”

He says nothing, but I can feel the surprise in his mind.  He has not contemplated too closely why the twelve hundred who accompanied us chose to come.  The idea that they came because of him, and not because they share his overwhelming desire to survive on his own terms, comes as a shock to him.

I nestle close, pleased that I can still surprise him.  And pleased that I have given him something new to think about.  Perhaps he will even come to believe it.  In time.

 

Despite the dangers of which the Beast has warned me, within a few minutes of leaving the Habitable, the beauty of Furya has consumed my heart.

A long, rolling plain stretches back from the cliff where we have made our new home.  Our Descent has flattened a huge ring of vegetation.  Trees and shrubbery lie felled.  Swathes of grass have been uprooted to reveal the underlying black loam.  Gouts of dried mud gray the banks of the three rivers that cut across the plain.

But despite the devastation, Furya’s beauty is everywhere.  In the greenery that clings stubbornly to the disrupted soil, slowly lifting bent stems toward the sky again.  In the flocks of birds, white and pink and iridescent blue, that pick through the downed foliage with stilted, avian grace.  In the gilt and tinsel wings of the insects that rise from the green mat, stirred by the birds’ passage.  In the distant ring of trees, untouched by the shockwave of our descent, which wave silver-green in the constant breeze.  In the brilliant sunlight that shines over all, touching the rocks and rills of the rivers with red and silver, flashing gold off leaves and wings.

Thaniel and I walk wonderingly through it all, following the path of the river we’ve dubbed the Anzoa, which flows closest to the Habitable.  When we recall ourselves, we stop and take soil samples.  The samples all show the same rich, slightly acidic, volcanic loam; the weathered remains, as the Beast promised, of an ancient lava field.  Perfect for the crops we plan.  But mostly we are so lost in the planet’s beauty that we simply wander along the riverbank, pointing out each fresh marvel to each other.

I long to touch it all.  To feel the hot breath of the wind across my skin.  To roll the grit of the soft black soil between my palms.  To dip my toes into the flowing cool of the river.  But my flesh is safely sealed behind an environment suit, and will remain so until the sweep teams have sampled everything and the Beast is satisfied that Furya’s alien environment poses no threat.

Even with our protection, we have to return to the Habitable when Prokris, Furya’s mother planet, rises in the northern sky.  Now, at perigee, with Furya closest in its elliptical orbit to the gas giant, Prokris commands the horizon, clearly visible despite the daylight, its dramatic, swirling orange visage larger and brighter than the distant red star.  The pale nimbus that outlines the planet in the sky seems too lovely to be deadly, but I know from studying the planet during our journey that that is where the danger lies.  A plasma torus forms as Prokris’s massive gravity and stronger magnetic field pulls at Furya’s, weakening the moon’s electromagnetic field and allowing the star’s radiation to pour down on Furya.  Our plants will thrive when Prokris rides the sky, but it is not safe for us to be out and about.  Not until Tomoetu and Cays finish inoculating us to the increased radiation.  And so quickly, as quickly as the bulky environment suits will let us, we stump our way back to the Habitable’s entrance.

As we enter Zibon’s dim cool, Thaniel pulls his helmet off impatiently.  We’ve been unable to communicate for several minutes, since planet-rise, as Prokris’s radiation has interfered with the suits’ signals.  Thaniel’s eyes flash with all he wants to tell me.

“Yes?”  I laugh as I pull off my own helmet and fold back the suit’s tight cowl.

“Did you see the vine that’s already growing near the airlock?” he asks, leading the way down the corridor to the storage lockers.

I nod.  I noticed it.  From the shape of the leaves, I guess its cytophale, a vitamin-rich leafy green that I know, from studying Furya Colony’s few surviving records, the original settlers cultivated with great success.  That it has thrived without their husbandry is a testament to its hardiness.  It is no surprise that the vine has already begun to recover from the shock of Descent.

“Cytophale,” I say, pushing the environment suit off over my belly awkwardly.  When I finally manage to wriggle out of it, I hand it to Thaniel to hang in a locker.  “If it’s already growing wild, we shouldn’t have any trouble cultivating it.  I saw wild caracoatta growing along the clifftop, too.”

Thaniel rubs his thumb under his chin, ruffling the short black hairs of the beard that he’s cropped close to his jaw again.  “Thing of beauty,” he says, and although I am not sure if he refers to the golden-pink caracoatta fruit or to Furya’s general bounty, I agree with him.

“Fascinating.”  The Beast’s low rumble, wholly unexpected, makes both of us jump.

Thaniel recovers first.  “Lord Riddick.”  He gives the Beast a small, deferential bow.

The Beast nods at Thaniel, but his silver eyes are on me.  “You’re late.”

Late for what?  “Forgive me,” I apologize automatically.  “I did not know you were waiting for me.”

“Planet rose twenty minutes ago.”  The Beast’s tone drops, deepens, and he crosses his arms over his chest, a gesture I do not miss despite the twilight of the corridor we stand in.

Beside me, Thaniel shifts uncomfortably and draws breath to speak.

I forestall him, knowing that the Beast responds best to concessions, not justifications.  “I know you want me inside when the planet is up.  We went further than we realized.  As soon as we saw the planet rise, we turned back.  It won’t happen again.”

The Beast’s mouth tightens with irritation, but he nods and holds his arm out to me.  “Time for you to eat.”

Knowing better than to gainsay him when he’s angry with me, I hasten to take his arm.

“Li, I’m going to take these down to the lab,” Thaniel says, picking up the sample cases we’ve brought back into the Habitable.  “See you after lunch.”

I smile briefly at my erstwhile botanist before the Beast pulls me away into the dim interior corridors.

Taciturn, he strides along.  I do not need him to speak to know that he is still annoyed.

“It won’t happen again,” I say after a few moments of his prickly silence.

“Yeah?  You promise a lotta things.”

That is unfair.  And untrue.  I have never made him a promise that I did not do my best to keep.  I stop abruptly and pull my hand out of the crook of his elbow.  “What promises have I broken?”

He turns and looks at me, a mercuric gleam in the corridor’s gloom.  One dark eyebrow arches and I steal myself against the caustic comment I know will follow.  “You forgettin’ Gennica?”

“No,” I retort.  I will never forget Gennica.  I will never forget the look in her eyes when she admitted to me what Zhylaw had done to her for years, using her with his armor on, tearing her inside and out, before coming to me each day for his chaste bath.  I will never forget the fear on her face when she begged me to help, to intercede with the Beast, so that she would not have to face an eternal unlife with Zhylaw. I will never forget that the Beast denied her Furya, denied her any future but the one she feared the most.  And I will never, ever forget Nazya’s soft voice reporting that Gennica had slashed her wrists in her bath, killing herself before her Due Time, rather than face that future.  I will never forget, and it is very hard to forgive.  “I remember her perfectly.”

“D’you?  ‘Cause you and I must remember it differently.”

“As I remember it, I promised not to meet with her alone, and that is a promise I kept—”

“Me!” the Beast roars.  “Not Nazya, not Caden.  Me!  You swore not to see her unless I was with you, and the next day you were in her fuckin’ rooms without me!   She tried to kill you, but you just could not keep away from her.  An’ now you’re running around outside with that goddamn planet up.  I can’t let you outta my sight for two fuckin’ minutes, Liaden!”

Is that what he thinks?  That I am a child who must be constantly watched and collected when I stray?  “Then perhaps you should confine me to our quarters,” I say, infuriated.  “You can keep me barefoot and pregnant—”

“Don’t tempt me,” he growls.

“Don’t treat me like a child!  Ever since you learned I was pregnant you’ve treated me—”

He moves too fast for me to follow, closing the distance between us in a blur, sweeping me up into the crushingly hard circle of his arms, pressing me against the corridor wall and sinking his hand in my hair to pull my head back so that he can look directly into my eyes.  “Like the most important thing in the universe.”

His word are so unexpected, they steal the breath out of my lungs.  “Oh.”

“That all you got to say?” he growls.

I can’t think of anything else.  His admission that I’m so important to him robs me of speech.  “Yes.”

“Liaden.”  He shakes his head, looking down at the space between us.  His hand wraps around my belly.  “We lost another man on the beach this mornin’ rooting out those things under the sand.  An’ then I come back to find you outside with that fuckin’ planet up.  What am I gonna do with you?”

“Trust me,” I respond.  “Trust me to keep my promise.  As I have tried to keep every promise I have ever made you.”

“Liaden.”  He looks at me, a hard argent glance.  His mind reconnects with mine, and only then do I realize that our link through my Collar was broken while I was outside.

Only then do I feel his fury.  And his fear.

“Riddick . . .” I breathe.  “Rage at me, then.  But forgive me, when I say I’m sorry.  I am, Riddick.  Truly.”

He blows a breath out through his nose.  “I came back an’ I couldn’t find you.  No one knew where you were.  Couldn’t feel you.”

“Forgive me,” I repeat, curling against his chest and pressing my hands against the broad expanse of his back.  “I didn’t realize.”

“Don’t do it again,” he says softly.  And I know that he has forgiven me.  The rage in him dies down to its constant faint burn.  The perpetual fury that fuels him.

He holds me for a moment, with my back still pressed against the corridor wall.  His huge hand strokes the side of my belly, but there is nothing for him to feel now.  I’ve felt only the occasional flutter since rising this morning.

“C’mon.  We’re gonna get you somethin’ to eat.”

He steps back, releasing me, and I shiver, chilled without the warmth of his body.  The dim interior of the Habitable is as cool as a cave, and will maintain this steady temperature no matter how hot or cold Furya’s surface becomes.

His silver eyes track my movement, and he immediately tucks me against his side.  His warmth spreads through me in slow waves.  “So,” he says, consideringly.  “You found some pretty flowers, huh?”

I elbow him in the ribs and he chuckles.

 

With Prokris and the distant star Kreon riding the sky, the new dining hall is brilliantly illuminated.  The light streaming through the huge wall lens is so bright that the Beast pulls his dark goggles out of a pocket and slides them down over his eyes.

The air of the hall, thick with red-gold light, is also filled with voices, and the mingled odors of good food.  I am late, I realize, looking around.  Most of the tables are already full.  As we enter, the din dips; many of those gathered glance up and acknowledge the Beast.  He nods at each upturned face, but plows purposefully through the crowd toward the head table.

At the head table, Vaako rises.  His black uniform melds into the long shadow he casts across the room.  He tilts his head to catch the Beast’s eye, as though we might somehow miss his dark shape against the glowing window, or his singular glower.

Without comment, the Beast leads me to our table.  A seating order has established itself over the last two days, despite the Beast’s attempts to break the old Necromonger hierarchy.  Vaako sits immovably at the Beast’s left hand.  Daray and Sanjula sit across the table, Sanjula facing me and Daray facing the Beast.  The Beast’s other commanders and their companions cluster to our left, while the Beast’s concubines and guests sit to our right.

Today our guests include the Elemental Aereon, already engaged in conversation with Avalyn, and two of the Furyan males.  Cawl sits at the head of the table, the place I originally assigned him, which he has claimed for his own ever since.  On his right sits . . .

I cannot remember his name.  He is dark, brooding, silent.  I have spoken to him.  He did not like my nearness.  I cannot remember.  I grind my teeth in frustration.

“Hardy,” the Beast supplies in a murmur.

Silent Hardy.  The name clicks and I remember.  I smile at the Beast.  “Thank you.”

“Know you hate being at a disadvantage.”

I rub my forehead ruefully.  “My memory’s usually better than this.”

The Beast chuckles as he seats me next to Zetany.  “Pregnancy amnesia.  Old man warned me about this.”

“You found her, I see,” Daray says from across the table.  He winks at me.  “We were about to send out the lupinarus.”

Warily, I glance up at the Beast to see if his commander’s comment reignites his anger.  But the Beast merely cocks a dark eyebrow at Daray.  “She’s gonna wear a locator from now on.”

Despite not wanting to infuriate him again, his comment shocks me into saying, “I am?”

“Yeah, you are.”  The Beast tilts his head at me.  “You don’t like it, there’s always the barefoot option.”

I suck my cheeks between my teeth and bite down on them to keep from making an unwise retort.

Zetany, her puzzlement writ large across her face, leans over to peer under the table.  “You went outside barefoot?”

The Beast roars with laughter.

His laughter breaks the lingering tension between us, and I almost join him.  But I remember Zetany’s distress at being excluded from my conversation with Avalyn.  Biting on the soft skin of my cheek until my eyes water, I manage not to laugh.  “Could you pass the bread, Zetty?” I ask her.

She colors a little, but not as much as if she would if I’d laughed at her.  Lowering her head to hide her embarrassment, she reaches for the plate of bread in front of Nadie.

Her forearm brushes a goblet of Cark beside Nadie’s plate.  The goblet topples, splashing black wine across Nadie’s meal and into her lap.

“You idiot!” Nadie exclaims shrilly.  She leaps up from her chair and begins mopping at her gown.  Scalecloth doesn’t stain, and I can’t see any damage to the dress, but she refuses to be placated, batting away the hands that reach to help her.

“Maybe you’d better go change.”  The Beast’s growl silences the commotion.

Nadie glances at him and has the grace to look ashamed.  “Of course, Lord Marshal.”

“I’m so sorry!” Zetany wails.

The Beast waves her apology away.  “Forget it.  You goin’, Nadie?”

Her lips tight with irritation, although whether at the supposed damage to her gown or at her failure to garner the sympathy she wanted from the Beast, I cannot tell, Nadie tosses her napkin onto the table and stalks towards the door.

The Beast follows the retreating bright banner of her hair with his eyes.  “Lettin’ her come was a mistake,” he says to me in an undertone.

I cannot help but agree.  “You could send her back,” I suggest.  “Toal would be delighted to welcome her back to the fold.”

He chuckles.  The one sure way to turn Toal around and bring him after us would be to send him Nadie.  “What’d she say when you told her I was lettin’ her go?  Forgot to ask.”

And with everything that’s happened since that conversation in my solarium, I forgot to tell him.  “She said she was true to her vows.”

“Interestin’,” the Beast murmurs.  “Since she hasn’t made any.”

I spear a piece of spiced dried fish from a nearby platter.  “Not for lack of trying.”

“She’s just not as persuasive as you are.”  He grins wickedly around a bite of meat and I flush with the memory of how I _persuaded_ him to accept my vow.  His goggled gaze slides down the table, resting on the silent, shamefaced Zetany, before moving to Avalyn, sitting rather pointedly across the table and deep in conversation with Aereon and Cawl.  “Guess I don’t have to ask about the rest.”

“No,” I say softly, following his gaze.

“Zet,” the Beast says, loudly enough that she can hear him.  “I need you and the mutt down on the beach later.”

Zetany’s head snaps up.  A flush of excitement replaces the one of shame.  “Yes, Lord Riddick.”

The Beast glances at me and the corners of his eyes crinkle.  His unsmile.  With my head turned away from Zetany so she doesn’t see my complicity, I smile in return.  “Is the beach safe?”

“Better.  Still don’t want you down there yet in anythin’ but a skimmer.  Those lowies are tough fuckers.”

“Lowies?”

“One of the legionnaires christened them Sand-Löwen,” Daray interjects from across the table.  “After an insect that hides under the sands and surprises its prey.”

“Ah.  And the others?  The ones with huge claws?”

The Beast shrugs; Daray answers me, “Antyons.  That’s what the Furyans call them.  Callum told us.”

Glancing around, I realize I haven’t seen Shirah or her Guardian since Descent.  “Where is _the Bride_?” I ask, layering a piece of Chef’s salted flatbread with slices of fish.

“Gone,” the Beast grunts.  From his tone, I can tell he does not find her absence hard to bear.  “Went back to see if the rest of ‘em wanted to join us.”

Vaako leans into the conversation.  “They’re returning,” he says.  “They signaled before planet-rise.  They will be here tonight.”

I sigh resignedly before I can stop myself, and beside me, I feel a tremor of tension run through the Beast.

“We could eat out,” I offer.  Doubtless, Chef would make us a picnic if I asked.

“Or in.”  He arches an eyebrow suggestively and I laugh.  Knowing he relishes Shirah’s return as little as I do lightens my mood.

“We were going to test the eastern shock wall tonight,” Vaako says to the Beast.  “Should we wait until after they arrive?”

The Beast tilts his head, considering.  “That’s one sure way of findin’ out if it works.”

Vaako chuckles and the other commanders smirk.  Shirah has not endeared herself to anyone, I gather.

“Liaden,” the Elemental’s precise tones drag my attention away from the Beast’s conversation with his commanders.  “I understand you began work on your garden today.”

I nod at her.  “We just took soil samples.  Planting won’t begin for a few days.”

The Elemental regards me with those witchy eyes that I have never grown accustomed to.  “I wonder if I might join you in the garden one day soon.  I’d like to see it at its inception.”

I cannot imagine her soiling her ever-immaculate white gown with Furya’s black soil, but I nod anyway.  “Of course, whenever you like.”

“I’m coming tomorrow,” Sanjula says from across the table.  “I want some worms.”

“Worms?” I ask, bewildered, unable to imagine what she might want worms for.

A grin splits her smooth brown face.  “I’m going fishing.”

“Need you to pilot a skimmer,” the Beast growls, with his usual ability to follow multiple conversations.  “Until we clear that fuckin’ beach.”

Sanjula inclines her head.  “Yes, Lord Marshal.  But after that, I’m going fishing.”  She gives me an unrepentant grin.

“My worms are your worms,” I tell her.

“I’d like to come with you, Jules,” Tirea says from down the table.  She’s smiling, but she looks drawn.  Purple shadows underscore her eyes.  With most of the Habitable’s new spaces unfurnished, the demand on Tirea and her Weavers must be immense.  “I could use a little time at the beach.”

Beside me, the Beast lifts his head.  “Sounds like a good idea.”

Tirea glances at him in surprise.  “Lord Marshal?”

“The black sand beach to the south scans clear,” Daray interjects, his face and voice eager.  “We wouldn’t have to worry about lowies.”

The corner of the Beast’s mouth quirks.  “Yeah.  We clear the shingle.  Get the shock wall up.  Then we’ll all take a day off.”

The Beast’s words evoke broad smiles up and down the table.  His commanders and their companions have all been working hard since waking.  A day of relaxation would clearly be welcome.

I lean against his shoulder thoughtfully.  A day off is a day away from my garden.  But I find myself looking forward to it.  To seeing this new face of Furya at his side, and to spending time with the men and women who have become more than just cogs in a military machine.

 _You comin’?_ he asks in my mind _.  Or am I gonna have to drag you?_

I arch my neck until I can smile up at him.  “You can drag me anywhere,” I whisper.  “But I will gladly come to the beach with you.”

His hand sinks into my hair.  “How ‘bout I drag you somewhere now?”

The depth and heat of his tone sends a shudder of delighted anticipation down my spine.  My Collar flares as he feeds an image of what he plans into my mind.  It will be slow today.  Slow and so very sweet.

“You done?”  At my nod, he rises, urging me with him but not, in fact, dragging me.  “C’mon.”

 

In my solarium, he darkens the great lens with a pass of his hand.  Turning slowly until his back is to the lens, he pulls off his goggles and stares at me, his eyes white-hot and feral in the diffuse light.

“Show me,” he says, his voice so deep it could reverberate from the depths of the planet.

My hands go automatically to the hem of my scalecloth tunic.  But before I lift it over my head, I hesitate.  Despite his evident desire, for the first time, I feel shy with him.  My shape has not changed perceptibly since we made love this morning.  But that was in the pre-dawn darkness, beneath the concealing sheets and covers of our bed.  Not standing bathed in Kreon’s red-gold light.  With every bulge and curve baldly revealed.

“Li?”  His voice rises, and I can hear surprise in his tone.  He takes two strides forward, closing the distance between us, and runs his hands down my arms.  He bends his head so he can catch my eyes, downcast in embarrassment.  “Liaden?”

I glance away, unable to meet that burning gaze, or to put words to my sudden reluctance to stand naked in front of him.

He takes it from my mind and gathers me to him.  “You get more beautiful every day,” he whispers, the surprise replaced by desire.  “Look at me.”

When I glance up, he opens his mind to me, and lets me see what he sees.  Slowly, he draws my tunic off over my head.

He does not see what I see.  The alien contours of my once-familiar body.  The fleshiness of upper arm and thigh.  The uncomfortable heaviness of my breasts.  The protuberant bump at my waist.  His gaze follows the silken wash of my hair as it falls around my shoulders.  My skin, thrown into sharp relief by the black frame of my hair, glows pearlescent in the ruddy light.  He traces the rounded lines of my shoulders and arms down to my breasts, gloriously full in his eyes.  With infinite gentleness, he molds my breast with his fingertips, and brushes his thumb, featherlight, over my nipple. The pillowy-pink peak slowly hardens.  My skin feels so soft, so fine under his fingers.

Heat roars through me, a floodtide of need called by his touch and stoked by his desire.  It washes away my shame.  I reach for him, and he folds me in his arms, against his chest.

He holds me for a moment, his fingertips tracing the metal ridge set into my spine.  When he reaches the Collar’s end in the small of my back, his fingers keep exploring, swirling lightly over the skin of my hips and buttocks.  His motion mirrors the heat swirling inside me.  I slide my hands under his Dynemal tunic and he lets me push it off him so we touch, skin to skin, and the wonderful heat of him envelops me.

“C’mon, Liaden,” he whispers.  And he lifts me, his hard arms going around my back and under my buttocks.  He makes me feel delicate, with the effortless way he carries me.

He straddles a chaise and positions me facing him.  Rising for a moment, he shucks off his trousers, baring the golden planes of hip and thigh, the dark, proud curve of his phallus.  His body gleams in the red light, all hard angles and deep ridges of muscle, and I sigh with delight.

Hearing my appreciation and seeing it in my mind, he smiles, a slow, wicked, knowing smile that lights me up inside.

“Look at me,” he says, leaning toward me, sliding his hands under my thighs, so the huge muscles of his chest and shoulders flex.  I should only look.  That is his command and part of the game we play.  But I cannot keep my hands off him.  I stroke my fingertips over the planes of his chest, slipping downwards until I find the change in texture of his aureoles.  A faint white scar undercuts his left nipple and I trace it with my fingernail.  Something about the scar’s proximity to his nipple makes it unusually sensitive, and he shivers at my touch.

“You know what that does to me,” he growls.

“I do,” I admit readily.

A deep rumble, and his eyes gleam with an internal fire that has nothing to do with the afternoon light.  “But we’re goin’ slow this time.”

“Are we?  Should I keep my hands to myself?” I ask coyly.

“No.”  An abyssal rumble.

I obey, as I always do, scratching the scar lightly with my nail until his nipples harden from just that touch.  When he groans, I let my hands trail lower, over the tight folds of his abdomen, following a line of black hair below his navel with my thumbs.

Before I reach my intended destination, he stops me, brushing my fingers aside and circling my thighs with his huge hands.  He lifts me suddenly, and lowers me so that I sit in the vee of his legs, with my thighs over his.  Cool air rushes over the heated tissue he has exposed, and when he gazes down at me, I realize this is exactly what he intends.

“Oh,” I breathe.  “No.”

“Lemme look at you.”

I squirm a little at his scrutiny.  Surely there is nothing new or interesting to see _there_.  But he stares at me with burning intensity.

His fingers follow his eyes, and he opens me further with his thumbs.  Daring to peek into his mind, I see what he sees.  Not clinical detail, but the wonder and mystery of my body.  The soft furls and folds, flushed rose with arousal, darkest at the center where my body will welcome him.  He strokes me, rubbing the pad of his thumb in the wetness that will ease his entrance.

“Liaden, see how beautiful you are.”

Submerged in his mind, I see only beauty.  I see the delicious flush that rises in my cheeks and throat when he strokes his thumb over the swollen hood of my clitoris.  He feels in my mind exactly what motion and pressure send bright, electric sparks shooting up inside me; he maintains it for long moments, until my core has melted into a dizzying swirl of need and longing.  Knowing what it will do to me, he pinches the taut nub gently between finger and thumb.  He smiles when I writhe for him.  Unable to bear any more of this sweet torment, I reach for him, but he pushes me back, against the high backrest of the chaise.  He leans into me, brushing my breasts with his chest, and at that angle, slowly pushes into me.

I expect awkwardness, but there is none.  His angle is perfect.  He rubs his thick tip into the hypersensitive flesh just behind my pelvic bone.  Rising slightly off the chaise, supporting my entire weight on his thighs, he thrusts with the massive power of his hips and thighs.

The intensity of his penetration is overwhelming, but he controls the crashing flood of sensation by slowing each thrust, drawing it out to eternity.  In in in and then ponderously back out.  His entire length rubs across that acutely reactive spot within me, before plunging deep to nudge against my core.

I keen, throwing back my head.

“That’s it, Liaden.  Come for me.”

My body, so attuned to his commands, immediately obeys, hurling me into a blinding climax.

“Come all over me,” he growls, his deep voice resonating through me, that perfect low note that shatters stone, and the vibration of it intensifies my orgasm until it is unbearable, unstoppable, a ferocious whirlwind that explodes through each nerve and leaves me shuddering in his arms.

He catches my head, cups my nape in his hand, and pulls my head forward so he can look into my eyes, watch the ecstasy overspill there.  Holding my gaze, he lifts me higher against the backrest, arching my body so that he can drive into me freely, pounding with the immeasurable strength of his back and buttocks, a frenzied uncontrolled thrusting that brings him, roaring my name, to his own release.

We subside into softness.  Achingly tender kisses and gentle caresses.  He collapses onto the backrest and pulls me onto his chest.  His hands glide over the fall of my hair, making a quiet, constant noise like the rustle of leaves.  It echoes his soft rumble of pleasure and contentment.  I nestle against him, my face in his collar, breasts and the bulge of my stomach tucked into the curves of his torso.  We fit together like two parts of one whole.  His scent, skin and sweat and male musk, wraps around me, fills me.  Sated and comforted to a depth that words can never reach, I drift in his embrace. 


	6. Chapter 6

I wake into his memory.

 _Blowing cold_.  Beyond the opening of the cave he shelters in, a blizzard rages.  He settles deeper into his cocoon of furs.  His movement stirs scents.  His own stale sweat.  Rank decay from the furs he’s only been able to freeze-cure in the perpetual cold.  The seawater sharpness of his sex.

There’s no complementary female musk, and the absence bites at him _.  Five-fingered relief’s all well and good, but it ain’t the same_.  He starts to think about the last woman he was with.  He pictures her improbably red hair and chocolate skin, the matching red drapes of her boudoir in the cathouse on I’canthis, his last stop before his self-imposed exile in the galactic artic.  But after a moment, he pushes the memory away _.  Just torturing myself.  Got about as much chance of being with a woman again as I got of growing wings and flying off this frozen heap_.

Longing, so sharp it brings bile to his throat, shoots through him before he rolls over in the furs, ignoring the haunting scents, and resigns himself to sleep.

Without warning, his memory shifts from frozen tundra to steaming jungle.

 _Running_.  The air so hot and thick each breath’s a struggle.  Heavy with the odor of wet earth and plant decay.  Overpowering the smell of the jungle, a female musk, meaty with readiness, rank with fear.  His blood leaps, driving him after that tantalizing scent.  This is what his body wants.  To drive into that yielding female flesh.  But his mind revolts.  _Wrong.  She smells all wrong._

“Li?”  His lips brush my ear.  “You awake?”

His whispered question rouses me out of his memories.

I rub my cheek against his skin and open my eyes to the red-gold light of the Furyan afternoon.

“Mmm,” I murmur.  “I didn’t mean to drift off.”

“S’okay.”  His hands trickle up my back, tickling and soothing all at once.

I stretch, arching my back.  My skin reluctantly parts from his with a faint sucking noise.  He mutters, high, discontent, before he pulls me back tight against him.

“Not yet.”

Happily, I nestle back into the warm envelope of his body.  I feel his thoughts circle, turning over the idea of carrying me to bed and spending the rest of the day there.  His contemplation buries the two memories.  Deeply.  Deliberately.  They aren’t anything he wants to think about, or me to see.

“Where was the ice cave?”  I ask sleepily.

“Some forgotten shithole on the edge of the Arm.  Didn’t think you saw that.”

“I’m sorry.  I didn’t mean to pry.”

His arms tighten around me; his fingers trace a segment of the Collar set into my spine.  When he’s touching my Collar, it is more of an effort for him to close his mind to me.  But he doesn’t try.  He lets me see his continued contemplation of spending the rest of the day in bed.  And his bemused comprehension of my sleepwalking through his memories.

“You’d think I’d be used to it by now,” he says slowly.

“Do you . . . resent it?”  I ask.  He has not always appreciated the link the Collar creates between us, and I fear that sometimes he sees it as an intrusion.

“No, not like that.”  He strokes his thumb down the vertebral segments of my Collar.  “It’s strange not to be alone.”

I tilt my head back, rolling my cheek along his shoulder, until I can look up into his eyes.  “Are you glad?  To be – not alone?”

I know that sometimes he resents the responsibilities that have been thrust on him.  The burden of caring for the people who rely on him.  But I also know, from what little he has told me of his past, that it has always been thus.  People have always relied on him, rightly or wrongly.  I can only hope that he does not feel trapped by his responsibilities.

Because I know what he will do if he feels trapped.  He desires freedom so fiercely; he will not tolerate being trapped for long.

“Most days,” he says.  “Today I wouldn’t mind if it was just you and me.”

I smile.  “That would still be not alone.”

“Never gonna be that alone again,” he says, and it sounds like a promise to himself.

I hug him tightly.  “Of course, if Shirah has her way, you’d be even less alone.”

“Don’t remind me.”  He blows a breath out through his nose.  “I’m regrettin’ invitin’ her here already.”

“But it was the right thing to do,” I say, feeling again that moment of sympathy that I felt after our Descent.  When I realized what it must have looked like through her eyes.  The rape of her world.

“You okay with her comin’ back?  Could tell her to make it a short stay.”

“I’m content with your decision,” I say, leaving him room to decide either way.  “I would like to meet the rest of your people.”

He grunts.  “Say that after you meet them.  An’ they’re not my people.  More time I spend with you an’ Vaako an’ Daray, the more I see that.  We just come from the same place.”

“That counts for something.”  I smile fondly into his neck.  “Elkie is more like you than you know.”

“Yeah, I know you like her—”

“I haven’t forgotten what she is.”

“Mmm.  It’s more than that.  She’s got plans of her own.  I don’t want you gettin’ hurt when she decides to make her play.”

Puzzled, I peer into his mind to see what he suspects.  But his conjectures are formless.  He merely intuits that Elkie – so like himself in this way, too – is playing a deeper game than anyone realizes.

“And what of your plans, my love?”  I ask.

He chuckles.  “My big plan’s goin’ back to bed.”

I laugh with him, although I know he’s evading my question.  “Zetty and Ctyren will be growing impatient by now.  As will Thaniel.”

“Yeah.  Fuck ‘em?”

But it is a question instead of a command.

“They will wait if you want them to.  But so will I.”

“Li—”  Sudden emotion surges through him.  He clamps down on it, still uncomfortable with the vulnerability of this intense feeling.  But I read him well enough now to know what it is he conceals.  He has been alone for so long, lonely for so long, that at times the realization that he is no longer, that I will be there for him tonight, tomorrow and all the days after, is too acute for comfort.

“Don’t want you to think I take you for granted,” he murmurs.

“I would never think that.”

“You sure you don’t want me to marry you?”

“If you’re so desperate to be the Groom of Furya, I will gladly marry you.  But think how angry Shirah will be that you’ve upstaged her.”

He snorts.  Then he looks down at me seriously and cups my cheek in his palm.  “If she says anything . . . hurts you in any way, I wanna hear about it.”

 _That she knows more about you, knows more of your past than I do, hurts more than anything she could ever say_.  But I bite back the words.  He has made his position clear, and I have learned that questioning him in the hopes that he will change his mind once is it made up is futile.

He takes the thought from my mind.  With a heavy sigh, he strokes my face back into his neck.  “Ask me,” he says finally.

“No.”  I shake my head against him, sorry to have cast a sour note over the sweetness of this moment.  “You’ve said there’s nothing in your past you want to talk about.  That’s your right.  I do not question it.”

He draws a long strand of my hair through his fingers.  Smiling, he brushes the tips across his lips.  “No one’s ever questioned me as much as you do.”  He rubs the soft tuft up and down over his lower lip meditatively.  “You want to know somethin’, ask me.  I don’t want you to feel like she’s got an edge on you.”

I stretch up and kiss the edge of his mouth.  He cups my head in his hands and kisses me back with that searing intensity.  That wet, concentrated working of lips and jaw that makes my heart beat like a drum.

When we’re both breathing hard, he pulls back and tucks my face into the curve of his neck.  “I’m not ready to go again yet.”  He chuckles.  “Must be gettin’ old.”

I nuzzle into his skin.  His displayed desire makes me feel so warm, so loved.  “I will wait for you forever.”

With a deeper chuckle, he says, “I don’t need that long.  Maybe just a coupla hours while we finish clearin’ that beach.”

Seeing the resolution in his mind, I nod and begin to rise.  He releases me reluctantly.  Before I draw away, he runs his hands lightly down my sides to cup my hips.  “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.  “Want you to wear somethin’ special tonight.  Somethin’ I’ve been savin’.”

From experience, I am wary of any interest he shows in my wardrobe.  The clothes he chooses for me invariably have a purpose other than utility.  Of late, everything he has chosen for me has flaunted my pregnancy.  I can only imagine, with trepidation, what he plans to outfit me in tonight.

I lift an eyebrow, a gesture learned from him.  “Oh?”

“Yeah.  Since you won’t marry me, might as well wear it tonight—”

I see the gleam in his eyes, and know he’s teasing me.  I refuse to rise to the bait.  “It would be a shame to waste such planning and effort.”

He chuckles.  “You know me too well, you know that?”

“Would that I did, my love.”  I bend over, finding the movement awkward around the bump of my belly, and brush a light kiss across his mouth.  Feeling my discomfort, he does not hold me in that pose, but rises with me and helps me collect our scattered clothes.

“You need any helpers this afternoon?” he asks while we dress.

“I’m always happy to have extra hands.  Once we finish processing these samples and are ready to clear the fields, I’ll be even happier for the help.  Why do you ask?”

“Had to break up a fight this mornin’.  Two of the legionnaires.  Over a woman.  Not the first one, either.  They’re gettin’ restless.  Not enough to do.”

I grin.  “Send them to me.  Hoeing is a fine cure for restlessness.”

He watches me pull my hair out from under the collar of my tunic, silver eyes intent.  Slowly, he reaches out and smoothes my hair down over my shoulders.  “This doesn’t work without you.”

I feel the sudden shift in his mood, the mercurial downturn that will leave him brooding and somber for reasons he will not share with me, but that I can easily guess.  “Then it’s good that I am here,” I say lightly.  I step closer to him, look up into those darkening eyes.  “And that your many efforts to get rid of me have been unsuccessful.”

He shakes his head.  “Li—”

“Come.”  I tuck my arm through his and lead him out of the solarium.  “If you’re taking Zetty and Ctyren down to the beach with you today, I’ll thank you to return them in one piece.  I’m quite fond of both my protégé and my dog.”

“ _Your_ dog.”  It’s a playful growl, and I know that I have averted his melancholy for the moment.  “An’ ain’t she _my_ concubine?”

“Is she?  I thought you let her go.”

“Can’t seem to get rid of her.”  He shakes his head in mock despair.  “All these damn women.”

“Ah, what a trial it must be for you, to be the object of attention for so many women.”

His chuckle echoes through the corridors of Zibon.

 

With his parting kiss still warming my mouth, and the deeper warmth of our recent lovemaking still flushing my cheeks, I rejoin Thaniel in our laboratory.  But I find that my botanist already has company.  Elkie sits at a workbench, peering into a lens that magnifies one of the soil samples, while Thaniel stands over her, adjusting the analysis program with small touches on the reactive surface of the lens.

In one glance, I can tell that they are lovers, or soon will be.  She leans into him.  His hand curls casually on her shoulder.  Excitement flushes their cheeks, so similar to the flush remaining in my own.  Each gesture tells its tale.

A white-hot spear of jealousy jabs my heart, and I shake myself in surprise.  Thaniel is my friend, and I wish him only happiness.  Elkie could be my friend, and although I sometimes question her motives, I hope that she, too, finds happiness.  That their pairing rings discordantly, a false note in my mind, is of no moment.

Elkie glances up first.  Her perpetual grin widens and she holds out a hand to me.  “Come ‘n’ see all the shit that’s wrigglin’ around in here.”

Thaniel also lifts his head and welcomes me with a smile.  But his flush deepens, and his hand drops away from Elkie’s shoulder.

I approach them and stand close enough to look over Elkie’s shoulder at the lens.  But my proximity does not satisfy her.  She hooks her arm around my hips and draws me tight to her side, so that she is sandwiched between us.  “Mmm,” she says.  “Now this is the place to be.  You smell interestin’, darlin’.  What’ve you been doin’?”

If her senses are as keen as the Beast’s, she knows exactly what I’ve been doing.  I clear my throat uncomfortably and peer at the lens.

Seeing the abundant worms, nematodes and beetles under the lens wipes away my discomfort.  A smile breaks across my face.  “Look, Thaniel,” I breathe.  “It’s so full of life.”

Thaniel brings his face down close to mine and grins.  “More fertile than we’d hoped.  Look at all that flatworm activity.”

Between us, Elkie sighs theatrically.  “At least the bugs are gettin’ some.”

Thaniel gives me a wry glance and I roll my eyes.  “Furyans.  They all have one thing on their minds.”

“’Least it ain’t dirt,” Elkie retorts.

I lean back and disentangle myself.  Crossing to my lens, I pull up the mapping program Thaniel and I developed before we left the Armada.  A grid immediately appears and zones of color begin to fill in.  “Oh, you’ve already started,” I say, feeling a touch of disappointment to have missed even this small part of my garden’s development.

Thaniel joins me at my lens.  He passes two fingers over the controls and the lens projects the grid up onto the long, bare wall above our workstations.  “Don’t worry.  Lots of manual tweaking left to do.  Look at this.”

He points to where the program has situated a grove of rowela trees next to a stand of sweetips.  I shake my head and pick up my stylus to adjust the program parameters.  Rowela leaves are highly acidic.  As they fall and decay, they alter the balance of the soil around the grove.  They need neighbors that thrive in high acidity, like the pulpy green tainatto.  Not the sweetips, which will fail to flower.  I tap in the adjustment, and the colors of the grid alter accordingly.

“Nice,” says Elkie admiringly from behind me.  “Wish I could track a jumper that easy.”

“Plants are easier to understand than people,” I murmur, unable to keep from glancing at Thaniel.

He scratches his beard meditatively.  “I don’t know.  Those bouffy flowers you grow are just as temperamental as some women.”

“Bouffy?” I exclaim in horror.  Is he insulting the Caprune roses I have tended so lovingly for years?  “Are you calling my roses _bouffy_?”

Elkie chuckles.  “And temperamental.  Don’t forget that part.”

“You have to admit they’re not good for much,” Thaniel says, spreading his hands in mock supplication.  “Any plant that can’t hold up its own weight, well . . .”

“I would say the same thing about supercilious botanists who haven’t finished cataloging their soil samples.  Don’t you have anything better to do than insult my floribundas?”

Thaniel gives his barking laugh.  “Sure do.”  He retreats to his lens and taps its controls.

Given what I suspect is developing between them, I expect Elkie to follow him.  Instead, she pulls up a stool and sits down beside me.  She tilts her head at the wall, scrutinizing the map.  I watch her, my eyes following the reflected colors that paint the strong planes of her face, streak the proud crest of her hair.

She continues to study the map, but is aware of my regard.  “See somethin’ interesting, Liaden?”

“Something curious,” I respond honestly.  “Why are you here, Elkie?”

“My abidin’ fascination with green shit.”

I contain a snort of laughter.  Having seen her enthusiastic but inexperienced efforts to help us with the seedlings, I know that whatever has drawn her here, it is not an interest in horticulture.  “That aside, why are you here?”

She shrugs one shoulder.  “Everything I’m interested in right now is here.”

I expect her to at least glance at Thaniel, but instead, her eyes, more green than brown in the reflected light, shift to me.

I control a shiver of discomfort at being the object of that inquisitive, piercing gaze.  My face feels hot and I wish I could control all my bodily reactions as easily as the muscular ones.  “And what interest would you have in the Lord Marshal’s Concubine?”  I ask pointedly.

She grins.  “When you figure that out, darlin’, let me know.”  Her eyes shift back to the map.

Recognizing when I am out-maneuvered, I retreat, returning to the program and making further adjustments.  Beyond the suitability of neighboring plants, there is a grace that a good garden should have.  A grace that the mapping program, with its optimum growth parameters and soil indexes, cannot fathom.  I work outwards from the point of Zibon, moving through the garden the way someone walking from the Habitable would.  I soften the edges of rows, add curving borders of herbs and, with a wicked glance over my shoulder at Thaniel, oasises of flowers.

When Elkie tires of whatever deep game she’s playing and moves off to join Thaniel, I let my imagination run riot.  The rowela grove develops shaded arbors, twined with fruit vines.  With such perfect supports, I cannot help but add a few climbing roses.  Wild hedge roses will appreciate the windswept cliff already devoted to caracoatta bushes.  The berries will not mind sharing their vantage over the crashing surf, and after the blooms fade there will be rose hips for tea.  The approach to the cliff –  emerging from groves of calhalla and taruut, which like a salt breeze, to the sudden drop off and the horizon of breaking foam – opens dramatically in my mind’s eye.  I add winding stone paths and stands of native lueke trees to frame the view.

So engrossed in the glory of my garden, I do not hear or feel the Beast approach until he speaks, softly, beside me.

“What do the colors stand for?” he asks.

I tap up the key for him and a list of crops displays beside the map.

The Beast’s silver eyes flick down the list.  “‘Luekes,’ what the fuck are those?”

“A small tree that grows with many trunks rising from a central base.”  I demonstrate with my hands.  “The heart of each trunk is edible.  And they bear fruit all year in this climate.”

“How d’you know that?”  His head tilts to the side curiously.

“From the original Colony records,” I say, and hold my breath, half-fearing his reaction.  I’ve never mentioned to him that I have studied the Colony records while I researched what crops would thrive on Furya.  And I never mentioned it when I found records of his family.  He has been so uncompromising about how he feels about his past.

“Mmm.”  He seems unconcerned, and I bury my vague worries before he sees them.

He sits on the stool Elkie has recently vacated and spreads something across his thigh.  I follow his gaze.  A slender silver chain lies under his fingers.  He strokes it with one finger before offering it to me.  “Brought you somethin’.”

Delight so bright it is like the Furyan dawn breaks through my chest.  “This is for me?  Thank you, my love.”

He makes a noise in his chest.  High, discontent.  “It’s a locator.”

I don’t care what it is.  It’s beautiful, and he has given it to me.  I wrap the ribbon of overlapping scales around my wrist and center the silvery gemstones.  When I touch the magnetic clasp on the underside of the bracelet it contracts to fit perfectly.  I stroke the cool plates, and realize what they remind me of.

My Collar.  He had the locator made to match my Collar.

With my chest tight and my eyes swimming with emotion, I look up at the Beast.  “It’s beautiful.  Thank you.”

A frown darkens his face and the skin around his eyes tautens.  “I don’t give you enough—“

I shake my head quickly.  “I have boxes of jewels I never wear.  I want for nothing.  All I need is you.”

He gathers me to him, shapes my face with his hand before he brushes my mouth with his.

“Oh, would you two get a room?”

I pull back from the Beast self-consciously and see Elkie and Thaniel emerging from around a seedling rack.  Elkie rolls her eyes.

“Good idea,” the Beast growls.  He scoops me up and rises in one fluid motion.  “Hope you were done with your flowers for today.”

I’ve only been working on the garden for a few hours, but I can see from the predatory intensity on his face that arguing with him is useless.

“Thaniel, would you save my changes to the program?”  I ask over the Beast’s shoulder as he carries me towards the lab door.

“’Long as they don’t involve any bouffy flowers,” my botanist retorts.

“My roses aren’t bouffy!” I shout, twisting in the Beast’s arms to glare over his shoulder.  The door snicks closed on Thaniel’s grin.

I feel the Beast’s chest vibrating with what I suspect is a chuckle as he strides along towards our quarters.  I glare up at him.  “Yes?”

“If it’s those big white flowers you grow, they are bouffy.”

He chuckles at my huff, and then makes me forget it completely when he lays me on our bed and makes love to me with ferocious intensity.  I lie beneath him afterward, listening to our slowing breathing, stroking his shoulders and feeling him rub his hand in slow circles over the side of my distended belly.  He’s left no centimeter of my skin unexplored.  My breasts still ache and tingle from his attentions.  My core quivers with aftershocks.  And he’s already told me he wants more in the bath.  My belly contracts in anticipation.

“You’re very . . . passionate today, my love,” I murmur.

“Too much, huh?”

“No, never too much.  I just . . . wonder if this has anything to do with the guests that will be with us in a few hours.”

He grumbles, turns it into a chuckle.  “You read me too fuckin’ well.”

As before, knowing that he shares my apprehension about Shirah’s return eases my own.  I cuddle against him in contented silence, enjoying the afterglow.  I can feel him parsing through several different lines of thought.  Clearing the shingle beach.  The baby’s small movements under his hand.  Organizing the first hunting party tomorrow.  Making love to me again.  With every revolution of his hand on my belly, he returns to one thought, which he finally voices.  “Been thinkin’ about somethin’ that merc said.”

“Mmm?”

“‘Bout havin’ more kids.”

“Oh?”  I open one eye and look at him warily.  His face is peaceful, reposed, silver eyes closed.

“Think we should have more.”  Another slow revolution.  “A lot more.”

“A lot more,” I repeat flatly.  We haven’t even managed to get through having one yet.

“A dozen,” he says, and there is no teasing in his tone.

He’s unhinged.  I close my eyes and nuzzle his chest.  “It is a good thing you have two other concubines.  You may want to choose a few more to help you reach that goal.”

The motion of his hand stops.

“What’re you sayin’?”

The emptiness of his voice – which means I’ve hurt him – snaps my eyes open.  He’s watching me, eyes flaming in the late afternoon light, face taut.

“Nothing,” I say quickly, to lessen the hurt I’ve dealt him.  Why is he so hurt by such innocuous teasing?  “Only that we haven’t even gotten through having this one—“

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing.  “You plannin’ on kickin’ me out after the baby’s born?”

As if I would ever let him go.  “Don’t be absurd.”

“’Cause I’m tellin’ you right now—”  The well of his rage opens, flares, and I realize this is a fear he’s kept from me.  One I’ve inadvertently ignited.

I push him onto his back and roll on top of him, giving him the full-body contact that comforts him the most.  I slide my arms under his shoulders, feeling the weight of him on my forearms, and look down into his face.  “No one will ever replace you in my heart.  Not one baby, not a dozen.”

He ruffles through my mind, examining my thoughts, and the conviction behind them.  The rigid muscles under me relax fractionally.  “The old man says I should expect it . . . for a while.”

“That I will care more for the baby than I do for you?”  I consider that.  There is no hard clutch of truth about it; no fear that suddenly grips me.  “Perhaps.  But Tomoetu only speaks from his experience.  And most couples do not share the bond we share.”

His fingertips play along the segments of my Collar.  “Yeah, that’s true.”

He’s silent for a few moments, then he says, “He also says we should wait a while before we start workin’ on number two.”

“Mmm.”  I rub my mouth along his neck, taste the salt of his skin.  “I cannot see us waiting very long.”

The Beast chuckles.  “Just so you know . . . I won’t go nowhere, while I’m waitin’.”  He slides his hand into my hair, gathers it in his fist.

His words ring through me, sing sweetly in my heart.  They are all the sweeter for being wholly unanticipated.  I have never expected him to be faithful to me.  It is not the Necromonger way.  Every Lord Marshal since Covu has had several concubines to serve him.  It is the reality of my station.  And when the Beast chose Avalyn, Nadie and Zetany as his concubines, I expected that sooner or later, he would take them to his bed.

That he has not both puzzles and pleases me.  But until now I took it as merely an indication that he was satisfied with me for the time being.  I did not harbor any illusion, however, that when his initial passion faded, he would deprive himself, or that he would not choose another if one caught his eye.  To hear him say that he will not makes my heart soar.

He tugs on my hair.  “You really thought that?”

Realizing that he has followed my train of thought, I bury my flaming face in his neck.  “I know you said you chose them to divert attention from me—”

“I meant that.”

“I know you did.  I just . . . Nadie’s so beautiful . . . I thought . . .”

He chuckles.  “Yeah, too bad she’s such a pain in the ass.”  He tugs on my hair again.  “Look at me, Liaden.”

When I do, shivering with the delight those familiar words spark inside me, he says, deep and low, “No other woman smells right to me.”

I smile tremulously, trying not to let my emotions overspill.  But my heart is bursting, soaring.  My chest is too small, too frail, to contain such joy.

With a deep chuckle, he pulls me down to him and wraps me tightly in his arms.

 

I move through the routine of his bath in a daze.  His words have stunned me, left me feeling as though the foundations of Zibon have shifted, leaving the entire world slightly off-kilter.  In a wonderful, rose-hued way.  The third time I drop the soap, the Beast chuckles and drags me down into his lap.

“What’s with you?”  He takes the soap from my nerveless hand and rubs it over my bent knees.  “You’re in my head all the fuckin’ time.  You didn’t know?”

I shake my head.  “I’ve never . . . you’ve never thought about that while I was in your mind.”

“I think about you all the fuckin’ time.”

I laugh weakly.  “You think about what you’re going to do to me . . . how it will feel.  That’s too distracting for me to focus on anything else.”

His cheek rounds against my temple and I know a wicked grin has spread across his face.  “I’ll remember that.”

He bathes me languidly, paying little attention to getting us clean and a great deal of attention to touching me everywhere, until, despite our recent lovemaking, my body aches and trembles with renewed desire.  When he finally enters me, sliding into me from behind as I sit in his lap, he ignores my breathy pleas and moves slow, so slow.  Barely more than rocking inside me.  Sensitizing my inner flesh the way he has my skin until I am writhing, vibrating with need.  I finally beg for release and he turns me in his lap and takes me with deep, hard strokes that immediately bring me to rapture.  His release builds slowly, continues for so long that he brings me a second time, and the marble walls resound with our mingled cries.

Our lovemaking leaves me enervated, muscles slack, mind befogged.  I am content to let him lift me from the tub, dry me and carry me back into the sanctum.  I expect him to carry me to our bed.  Nothing could be sweeter now than sleeping wrapped tightly in his arms.

Instead, he carries me into my small chamber and deposits me in my dressing chair.  “Wait here,” he says and disappears.

Bemused, I sit and stare at the huge circle of mirror facing me.  It reflects my flushed face, my mussed, damp hair, the pink marks that cover my throat and breasts from his enthusiastic lovemaking.  My eyes are huge in my face, black holes ringed with thin gray penumbras.  I look fey, unreal.  Is this how I always look after he loves me so thoroughly?

 _Yeah.  Why d’you think I jump you again so soon_?

I start at his thought.  He speaks into my mind rarely.  _I thought you were making up for five lonely years_.

“Before you?  Try eight,” he says, reappearing behind me.  “Try this on.”  He tosses a pile of black leathern into my lap.  I lift it slowly.  There seem to be an inordinate number of thin straps.  And very little else.

“Is this a harness for my belly?” I ask.  Truly, I will need one if I get any bigger.

The Beast chuckles.  “Not exactly.”  He draws me up out of my chair and turns the collection of straps around in my hands.  “Goes on that way.”

I look at him askance.  Is he planning to suspend me from the ceiling?  “This isn’t a dress.”

His chuckle deepens.  “Yeah, it is.  Kinda.”

I shake my head warily, but begin drawing the thing on.  Arguing with him is pointless.  This is part of whatever he plans for tonight, and he brooks no alteration of his plans.

The gown slowly takes shape as I find the correct position for each strap.  Long straps fall from my hips to my ankles.  They form a sinuous skirt.  I turn from side to side and listen to the straps sussurate like blades of grass.  Pale glimpses of my thighs and knees flash between the straps as I move.  Broader straps wind across my back, under my arms, to just cover my breasts before wrapping around my shoulders and linking in a bejeweled clasp at the nape of my neck.  As I expected, the dress leaves my belly completely exposed.  But it is so exotic, so _witchy_ , that I do not mind.

I will feel strange and powerful and very unlike myself facing the returning Furyans in this gown.

Glancing up at the Beast, seeing the way his eyes glow like molten silver, I realize this is what he intended.

I stretch up and kiss the underside of his jaw, in the warm, fleshy hollow.  An intimate touch that I know he likes.  “Thank you, my love,” I murmur into his skin.  “It’s beautiful.”

He catches my cheek in his palm, holds me for a deeper kiss.  _You’re beautiful_ , he says into my mind, while his mouth works over mine.  _Don’t ever forget it._

At his side, in his dress, with the fresh marks of his lovemaking glowing on my skin, how could I forget?

He leaves me to finish dressing, but all I do is run a brush through my hair.  The dress needs no adornment, not even shoes.  They would be wrong for this witch’s robe.  I slide Hannelore into a calf sheath and drift into the sanctum, carried along on the sweet rustle of straps.

In the moment it has taken me to brush my hair and arm myself, he has almost dressed.  I help him buckle on his bracers and smooth an invisible wrinkle on his Dynemal tunic.  Then he holds his elbow out to me and I link my arm through his.

“Don’t bother with feedin’ me tonight,” he says as we pass out of the sanctum and Caden falls into step behind us.  “Stay focused on what’s goin’ on.”

“Am I incapable of paying attention to more than one thing at a time?” I ask.  I have been trained to do exactly that.  To anticipate my Lord Marshal’s every whim while remaining vigilant for any threat.  “It enhances the impression of your power to have me serve you at table.”

I feel him turn over the idea in his mind.  He is easily convinced to accept something he enjoys so much.  “Yeah, okay.”

That he feels the need for extra vigilance makes me wary.  Better to be forewarned.  “Do you know those that will join us tonight?  Other than Shirah and Callum?”

“Yeah, some of ‘em.  Hobbi and Puck, they’re the two eldest.  They look it.  You’ll know ‘em.  Evon’ll be the one with hooks in her face.  She’s their fisher.  Most of the rest were too scared to speak t’me.”

The thought of his own people being frightened of him saddens me.  I stroke the hard muscle under my fingers.

Caden’s voice from behind us breaks into the gloomy moment.  “You are truly great and powerful, Lord Riddick, to inspire fear in all you meet.”

I glance at the Beast.  He snorts; I laugh.  And it is with smiles that we walk into the dining hall.


	7. Chapter 7

We are into the second course, Chef’s spicy signature stew, enhanced tonight with Antyon meat which is as sweet and satisfying as the Beast said it would be, when the Furyans arrive.  Their presence ripples through the dining hall.  The Beast stands before Shirah and Callum appear through the open archway.  With a whisper to Vaako and a touch on my shoulder, he brings the two of us up to flank him.  His hand settles warmly in the small of my back, his palm against the metal spine of my Collar.

 _Strength.  Pride.  Dominance_.  He projects them through my Collar, and into the very air around him.  I dare not glance at him, dare not disrupt the tableau he has created for the Furyans.  But I wonder, how can they do anything but fear him when he greets them so uncompromisingly?

And then I see why.  It is not wizened elders that follow Shirah and Callum, but three Furyan males.  Young.  Strong.  Aggression runs through every line of their bodies.  Bodies that move with the Beast’s predatory grace.  These are not Shirah’s people.  These are other returnees.  Returnees that challenge the Beast’s supremacy.

Behind the three lions, a herd.  These are the rest of Shirah’s people.  They wear coarse, patched robes that conceal their faces and forms.  But the robes give glimpses of the deformity I saw in the Beast’s memory.  Gnarled, scarred hands protrude from ragged sleeves.  Where Furya’s setting sun angles into the shadows of their cowls, it reveals skin corded with pink scars.  I swallow and call up the mask of cool pleasantry that I cultivated during my years with Zhylaw.

Shirah and Callum reach us and stop a meter away from the table.  Callum bows, but Shirah merely stares at the Beast.

“I’ve returned,” she says.

I feel the flicker of the Beast’s amusement.  “Yeah, I see.”

“I bring with me those who have stayed, and those who have returned.”

The Beast nods and Shirah steps aside, allowing those behind her to step forward.

The first two move in concert.  Prowling.  They would flank the Beast and lunge at him if they could, try to take him down by the throat.  But they are men, not animals, and instead, the older of the two nods his salt-and-pepper head at the Beast.  “Riddick.”

I know who he is before the Beast names him in return.  _Greer_.  And the man beside him, a scarred, feral-looking creature with a mouthful of gold and a mane of black dreadlocks, is Booth.  The two the Beast warned me to stay away from.  Here in the heart of our new home.

“Decided to play nice after all, huh?” the Beast says to Greer, who stiffens, huge shoulders flexing under a silver-gray flight jacket.  I wonder what has already passed between them that such an innocuous statement provokes such a reaction.

Greer’s black eyes narrow and he glances at the food-laden table between us.  “I heard the grub was good.  And you got all the pretty girls.”  His eyes skip past me, touch Zetany for a moment, and settle on Nadie.  He leers at her.

Nadie blushes before she makes a show of pouring herself more Cark.

I glance away in disgust, and in the process meet the burning gaze of the creature that stands next to Greer.  There is very little human in Booth’s gaze.  It is not the programmed blankness of a lensor, or the animal indifference of a lupinarus.  It is a screaming, rabid dementia.  An avid, homicidal intensity.  Gooseflesh rises all over my body, and I wish for a desperate instant that I was covered head-to-toe in scalecloth.  I do not want this creature looking at a sliver of my exposed skin.

Without thinking, I cup a protective hand around my belly.

Booth’s mad gaze follows my hand, and I have to swallow the cry that rises in my throat.

_Fierce Xia, keep that monster away from my baby._

The Beast stiffens and his arm slides around me, drawing me against his side.  “Leash your mutt,” he growls at Greer.

Greer chuckles, a malevolent echo of the Beast’s.  “Booth,” he snaps his fingers and they stalk away, towards the line of recyclers and serving tables at the back of the hall.

“Riddick,” I whisper, following them with my eyes.

“See what I meant about stayin’ clear of ‘em?” he responds, so low I doubt even Vaako can hear him.

“Yes.”  I nod fervently.

“Here’s one you don’t have to worry about.”  He raises his voice to his usual baritone growl.  “Jarone.”  He nods at the third lion.

Another golden-skinned, dark-eyed Furyan.  Like the Beast, he has shaved his head down to a dark stubble.  Unlike my love, he has decorated the exposed skin.  Brilliant tattoos, red and blue and dark green and black, scroll across his skin.  They catch the eye, but confuse it, too.  The shapes are almost familiar, almost plants, animals, faces, but they shade into abstraction before they become recognizable.

The tattooed Furyan bows to the Beast, then to Vaako, and then to me.  I curtsey in return.  He may be a challenger, but at least he has manners.

He steps aside and Shirah’s people step forward.

I recognize those the Beast mentioned.  The elders, Hobbi and Puck, are immediately identifiable both from their wizened countenances, and the deference the others show them.  They are Furyan, and despite their antiquity, I see nothing frail or weak about them.  Hobbi beams openly at me, delight shining in the eye not closed by the terrible scars that twist the right side of her face.  I cannot help but smile back at her.

Evon, the fisher, her face marked by the hooks she wears like jewelry, does not smile.  She looks too fierce to smile.  But I like her instantly.  She wears the marks of her service to her people as boldly and proudly as I wear mine.  I touch the Collar imbedded in my neck as I meet her eyes, and I see a spark of recognition there.  A kindred spirit.

The others step forward, singly and in pairs.  I try to commit each name, each face, to memory.  There is Clay, the potter, his hands and robe bearing traces of his namesake.  Danen, the only one of Shirah’s people other than Callum to carry a weapon openly, a bone-and-wood spear that he uses as a walking stick.  Feer Edda, the weaver, the patchwork of her robes so intricately done it makes a pattern of eyes and feathers.  Lilin, the only Furyan to present us with a gift, a basket full of delicate blue mushrooms.  Sene, who greets us with a smile so beatific that I do not need the Beast’s whisper of “priest,” to identify him.  I repeat each name in my mind, twenty-six in all.  Memorizing them.  Learning his people.

When the last of them steps aside, I sag against the Beast’s side.  Focusing so intensely on the Furyans has left me fatigued.  And I have not forgotten the threat of Greer and Booth.  Even while I have greeted each of Shirah’s people, I have watched them.  Watched them partake of the good food that Chef and his helpers have prepared.  Watched Greer talk easily with the legionnaires sitting at his table.  Watched Booth sit silently.  Knowing, all the while, that they are my enemies.  Threats to the man I protect.  Enemies, in the heart of Zibon.

The Beast takes my elbow, helps me back into my chair.  The third and fourth courses, shellfish from Helion served in a broth of white Cark, and steamed kelp that will soon be the only fresh green we have if my garden fails, have been served while we met the new arrivals.  I look at the serving plates askance, unable to muster any appetite with the threat of Greer and Booth so nearby.

Instead, I serve the Beast, teasing the mussels’ soft green meat out of their shells with the tip of my knife and arranging the morsels on the Beast’s plate.  He rejoins his commander’s conversation, but I can feel his eyes on me, see the small smile that plays around the corners of his mouth as he watches me.

When I finish the mussels with a swirl of broth, he leans into me and whispers, “You know how much I like watchin’ you do that?”

“Do what?” I ask, although I know perfectly well.  The novelty of having me serve him may have faded over the last few months, but the pleasure he takes in it, in having someone who is devoted to him, who cares about his comfort and well-being above all else, has only intensified over time.  And I know that his pleasure comes in large part from a lifetime of deprivation.

“You ready t’ditch this crew?  Say our goodnights?”

I hide a smile behind my fingers.  The novelty of his desire has also faded, but my delight in it is undimmed.  “We would be very remiss as hosts.”

“Like I give a shit.  Let’s go back t’bed.  I want to do this in private.”

I giggle.  I have often fed him in the months we have traveled together.  Or to be more precise, he has often dined on my naked body.

“Tell Chef to pack us a doggie bag.”

I nod and rise with a rustle of straps.  From somewhere behind me, like a shadow, Nazya rises with me.  Where does she hide?

“Are you retiring early, Mistress?”

I smile at her.  She knows me – and the Beast – too well.

While I instruct Chef, Nazya and I trade hand signs.  She’s already thought ahead to arrangements for the arriving Furyans, which I silently approve.  She also reminds me that I’m due in medical first thing in the morning for an examination, an arrangement of which I’m less approving.

 _Busy_ , I sign.

Nazya taps a finger against her mouth.  “I think Lord Riddick plans to attend.  Shall I tell him you’ve rescheduled?”

“That’s blackmail, Nazya,” I say, but I put no weight behind my words.  They’re a pair of benevolent tyrants, my handmaiden and my beloved.

“Yes, Mistress,” Nazya admits readily.  An unrepentant tyrant.

I sigh, knowing when I’m out-maneuvered.  “Very well.”

Nazya smile fades and she looks pointedly over my shoulder.  “Mistress.”

I follow her eyes, turning slightly away from the serving table.  Into Shirah’s lion gaze.  She holds my eyes, closing the distance between us, stopping only when she’s standing too close, so close she almost brushes my protruding belly.  Have these Furyans no sense of personal space?

“I wish to speak with you,” Shirah says imperiously.

“Whatever you got to say, say it to me,” the Beast growls.  He is suddenly at my side, his hand on my elbow, steering me back, away from that hot golden glare.

Shirah looks up at him, her expression shifting from imperious to smolderingly resentful.  “If I wanted to speak with you, I would speak with you.  My words are for your woman.”

“Glad we got that straight,” the Beast says softly.  But I know the softness is deceptive.  The glove of flesh that hides the killing steel.  “Now that you’ve figured that part out, get this through.  You want something from Liaden, you go through me.”

I glance up at him, grateful, but also bemused by his protectiveness.  I can fight my own battles.  And I do not fear anything Shirah might say to me.  I put my hand over his, where it curls around my elbow.  “My lord,” I say gently.  “Perhaps the Guardian merely enquires after the arrangements for her people.”  I look to Shirah.  “I can assure you that we have already arranged suitable accommodations for them.”

Shirah’s nostrils flare, like a lion scenting.  “That’s not what I want to speak with you about.”

“You got nothin’ else to say to Liaden,” the Beast growls.

I glance at him again, puzzled.  He sounds defensive.  Why?

Shirah’s jaw knots and she glares at the Beast, but says no more.

Chef’s return with a floating tray of food interrupts their battle of wills.  I take the tray’s guiding tether and nod my thanks to Chef before saying to Shirah, “If there is nothing else, then you will have to excuse us.  It would be an injustice to allow Chef’s mussels to go cold.  Nazya will help you find your rooms.”

My Handmaiden steps forward on cue.

Shirah looks Nazya up and down dismissively, then turns on her heel and stalks away.

“Well, she can always sleep on the floor,” Nazya murmurs.

The Beast chuckles.  “Make sure she finds a room.”

“Yes, Lord Marshal.”

The Beast reverses his hold, offering me his arm, and when I take it, leads me from the dining hall.

In the empty corridor, I dare to ask, “Aren’t you curious?”

“’Bout what she wants?”  His rich voice flattens.  “No.”

I know not to push.  His tone tells me the topic is closed.  But unlike the Beast, I am curious.  And I wonder if there will be an opportunity for me to discover – safely and without breaking my promise to the Beast – what Shirah wants of me.

 

I wake in darkness, chilled.  The fur cover has slipped, baring my naked torso to the cool night air.  I tug the fur up around my shoulders and sleepily reach for the Beast, to cuddle in the warmth of his arms.

The bed beside to me is empty.

I sit up sharply.  The muscle in my belly that I’ve pulled protests, but I ignore it, pressing my hand against it to ease the ache, as I survey the chamber.  Where is the Beast?  He rarely stirs in the night now that his nightmares have finally let him go.

The great lens in the wall above our bed is dark.  My internal clock has not yet adjusted to Furya’s twenty-six hour day, but I sense that dawn is still several hours off.  My eyes search the darkness and find him at his desk.  A glimmer of light from his lens reflects in his silver eyes, gleams on the skullcap he wears.  My breath catches.  How many times did I wake in the darkness, cold and alone, to see Zhylaw sitting in the same place, in the same position?

I shake myself.  Zhylaw is dead by the Beast’s hand, and whether he walks again in the UnderVerse, I will never know.  I have chosen another path, and that path does not require that I lie cold and alone, wishing that my lord valued me for something more than my selfless devotion.

I slide out of bed and pad silently across the thick carpet to the Beast’s side.  As I near, he lifts his eyes from the lens and looks at me.  A faint smile tilts the edges of his mouth and the lines creasing his forehead ease.

“What’re you doin’ up?” he asks, his deep whisper resounding in the darkness.  “Thought I tired you out.”

He reaches for me, and I sink into his lap.  Tugging his robe out from under me, he wraps the edges around me, so we are both held in its silken embrace.  I yawn delicately and lean back against him, into our accustomed position, with my head against his shoulder and his arms tight around me.

“You did,” I say.  And he did.  So much so that, despite the delicious licentiousness of serving as his platter, I could not stay awake for the lovemaking that should have followed.  “And what of you?”

He shrugs against my back.  “Too much on my mind.”

I reach back over my shoulder and stroke his head, still silky-smooth from his afternoon bath.  “Will you share it with me?”

He rumbles deep in his chest.  “Yeah . . . tell you something I been thinkin’ about.”  He cups his hand over my belly.  “This right here.”

I smile into the darkness.  At least he’s not thinking about the dozen others he wants to have.  “And what have you been thinking about our child?”

“Been thinkin’ that you haven’t suggested any names for her.”

I shift in his arms.  Although his tone is gentle, I can feel the censure behind it.  And I know that he has seen in my mind the ambivalence I sometimes feel about the pregnancy.  “I do want the baby,” I whisper.

“Yeah, I know.”  He rubs his mouth in my hair.

“I’m afraid.”  The words come with surprising ease, sitting here in the dark with him holding me close.  “I don’t remember much of my sister’s birth, except the screaming.”  My mother’s terrible, high-pitched screams that sent me sobbing into my own furs, terrified by this thing I did not understand.

“It’s not gonna be like that.  The old man says there won’t be much pain.”

I smile sadly into the darkness.  “Tomoetu hasn’t delivered a baby in decades.”

And men always discount women’s pain.

The Beast says nothing, but holds me close, silently reassuring me.  His support gives me the strength to say, “And I’m afraid—of what comes after.  What if I’m not a good mother?”  My nerve breaks and I can only murmur my deepest fear.  “What if I don’t love her?  What if she despises me?”

“Li,” the Beast murmurs into my hair.  “When you saw Booth today, what was your first thought?”

 _To protect the baby_.  I nod, appreciating his point, but the worry doesn’t leave me.

“I have thought about names,” I say tentatively, to divert us both.  “Before we left the Armada, I made a list.”

“Why didn’t you say anythin’?”

Because naming the baby will make her real, but I quash that thought before the Beast sees it in my mind.  “Would you like to hear them?”

“Yeah.”

I reach out of the warm circle of his arms to tap his lens.  I navigate quickly to the interface between his lens and mine, where I have left a number of files that I do not mind him accessing.  I open one of these and settle back into his arms to read the names scrolling down the lens.

“Alana.”

The Beast rumbles high in his chest.  His discontented noise.  No, he doesn’t like that one.

“Alexa.”

A grunt.  Not that one, either, then.

“Allegra.”

“No.”

“Don’t you think Allegra’s pretty?  It’s an old musical term.”

“So’s rock-and-roll but we ain’t namin’ her that.”

I roll my eyes at the darkened ceiling.  “Aurelia?”

“No.”

That finishes the ‘A’ names I’d selected.  I tap the lens for the ‘Bs.’

“Bethan.”

“Sounds like it’s missin’ a ‘y.’  No.”

“Bianca.”

A grunt.  No.

“Well that’s the As and Bs.  Didn’t you like any of them?”

“Better try the Cs.”

I shake my head.  I’ve had enough of this game for tonight.  “Wouldn’t you rather come back to bed?”

“Depends.”  He rubs his mouth in my hair.  “You still tired?”

In answer, I settle more firmly against him, rubbing my bottom into his lap.

His deep, wicked chuckle.  “I’ll take that as a no.”  He lifts me out of his lap and rises, his hands lingering on my hips.  Steering me towards the bed, he gathers my wrists behind my back and holds them in one hand.  “Somethin’ else I been thinkin’ about while you been sleepin’.  Somethin’ we haven’t done in a while.”

He lets me see in his mind what he intends, and I shiver with delighted anticipation.

 

“Mistress.”  My Handmaiden’s soft tones, her gentle touch on my bare shoulder, awaken me.  I blink, open my eyes, and squint into the bright light streaming through the lens.  It plays across the rumpled fur cover, the black silk pillows, but not over the golden skin that should lie beside me.

The bed is empty, as it was in the night.  The Beast has left me sleeping.  Usually we awaken together, make love, rise together.  The Beast always awakens in an amorous mood.  Why has he left me alone this morning?

I sit up slowly, stretching, feeling the faint ache in my wrists from where the Beast tied me to the bed during our late night lovemaking.  “Where is the Lord Marshal?” I ask muzzily.

“Out in the fields with Lord Vaako.  I think they’re testing the shock wall.”  Nazya sits down on the edge of the bed.  “He bid me tell you that he would meet you in medical.”

Oh, yes, the examination.

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Nazya says apologetically.  “You seemed so tired.  But Master Tomoetu expects you within the hour.”

I nod and slide out of bed.  I don’t want to keep the Master waiting.  “Thank you.”

Nazya smoothes out the covers, fluffs the pillows.  “It’s not like you to sleep so late.  Is it the baby?”

Or the Beast’s ardor.  I smile wryly.  “Perhaps.”

Nazya trails me into my dressing chamber and helps me into a simple gardening shift.  While I sit and brush my hair, she fusses in my wardrobe, rearranging my gowns, brushing off invisible dust.

“What’s wrong, Nazya?”  I know my Handmaiden well enough to recognize when something is bothering her.

“These Furyans that have joined us . . .”

“An interesting group, aren’t they?”

“As you say.”  She shakes out the gown I wore to dinner last night so vigorously that the straps snap and sing like a flail.  “I stayed in the dining hall late last night, after you and Lord Riddick retired, to show them their chambers.  And I listened to them talk among themselves.”

“Oh? What did they have to say?”

“They spoke to each other of their legend, the Furyor.  They have another name for him, too.  The Scourge of Furya.  Have you heard that?”

I lift an eyebrow.  “No.”

“The more I heard of this legend, the less I like it.  This Furyor is not just the man who will save them.  He is judge and jury and executioner.  He will wipe Furya’s enemies and the unrighteous from her face.  He will rise above all to father a new generation to rule Furya, and the universe.”

“I hadn’t heard any of that.”  Has the Beast?  If he has, he has given no sign.  “And did they call us Furya’s enemies?”

Nazya gives the dress another shake.  “No, but they didn’t need to.  They speak among themselves, in whispers, reminding each other that the Furyor’s time is coming.  That they will walk among us as conquerors, not as the conquered—”

“Is that how they see us?”  I sigh heavily.  How could it be otherwise when we arrived in such force?  When the Beast has greeted so uncompromisingly?  “And what of Riddick?  What do they think of him?”

“Some of them call him the Furyor already.  But others say that he has not yet mastered the hunt.”

“Ah,” I murmur.  “The Hunt.”

“What is the Hunt?  They speak of it as though it is a trial, but none said exactly what it is.”

I tell her what I have heard from Elkie, and when my new dress seems likely to lay stripes across the walls if it remains in her grasp, I gently take it from Nazya.

“Lord Riddick will not—” she begins, her voice shaking with outrage.

“He says he will not.”  I hang up the dress and sink back onto my vanity stool.  “But Elkie says that when Shirah calls the Hunt every Furyan male will answer.”

Nazya leans against my dressing table, and begins reordering the already artfully-arranged boxes and display stands for my jewelry.  “The mercenary woman is insightful.”

I nod.  “I think so, too.”

“I don’t like this, Mistress.  What if that Furyan woman makes Lord Riddick fight for her?  What then?  What of—”

“Me?”  I shrug.  “Since Covu our Lords Marshal have always had more than one concubine or companion.  Shirah would be no different in that respect.”

“This is different,” Nazya says vehemently, stacking my hair clips into a tottering tower.  I rescue the Rift clasp and use it to pull back my hair.

“Lord Riddick is different,” she continues  “You are different.  You bear his child.  Would that woman tolerate that?  No, I cannot see that.”

Nor can I.  But the Beast has promised me that it will not come to pass, and I must believe him.

“And what if the mercenary is wrong and Lord Riddick refuses?  If one of the others wins her.  That man Greer?  Or the other one, the rabid one?  What if one of them becomes the Furyor?  Will they wage war on us?”

“Riddick will slaughter them and their legend will die with them,” I say simply.  And the reason the Beast has greeted the other Furyans so aggressively comes clear to me.  It is not just because it is his nature, or because strength is what the Furyans understand.  It is because he seeks to show them that there is no middle ground.  They are with us or they are our enemies.

I share my insight with Nazya, who nods and finally stops fidgeting with my jewelry.  “Do you think he has foreseen this?” she asks.

I take the locator bracelet the Beast has given me and carefully wrap it around my wrist.  “I cannot say.  I only know that he sees what most of us do not.”  And that he usually plays a game deeper than anyone else can fathom.

“Here.”  Nazya hands me Hannelore and I stand to buckle her chain around my hips.  “Do you want me to have Chef make you something to eat before the examination?”

I should be hungry.  I ate lightly at last night’s meal and many hours have passed since then.  But my mind is too full to allow me any appetite.  I want to talk with the Beast, and think on the possibility that he already plans to slaughter his people.  I have to endure Master Tomoetu’s examination, and then my garden awaits.  I have neglected organizing a training session for the concubines, and I should make some gesture to the Furyans.  So they know that the choice the Beast gives them is not so grim.

“No, but I would like to have tea in the solarium later.  Would you invite Elkie and the Furyans Hobbi and Evon to join me?”

Nazya tilts her head.  “And what of the others?”

“Avalyn has made her choice.”  And the Beast has already tacitly recognized it.  “Invite Zetty.  Nadie can find her own entertainment.”  The thought that perhaps she already has crosses my mind.  “Nazya, I know Nadie flirts with many men.  Does she--?”

“Allow them the Lord Marshal’s liberties?”  Nazya purses her mouth sourly.  “No, not that I have seen.  Much as one might wish she did.”

I laugh.  “Have a little pity on her,” I say, remembering our last interaction.  “Riddick has left her in an unenviable position.”

“Then she should have the wisdom to make the choice that Avalyn has.”

I shrug.  “Wisdom does not seem to number among Nadie’s qualities.”

Nazya finally joins me in laughing.  “No, it does not.” 


	8. Chapter 8

A beeping from the band on my wrist breaks me out of a pleasant haze.  I glance down at it, note the passing time, and then back into the distance, where a line of stooped figures moves slowly, clearing the detritus of our Descent from Furya’s rich black soil.

Thaniel and his group of legionnaires have left me behind at the river’s edge to begin planting, and I have lost myself in its sweet rhythm: opening the ground with my trowel, tipping a seedling out of its storage tube, settling it into the dirt’s moist embrace, stroking the soil back around the seedling’s roots before moving on to the next.  I have lost track of time, and now the locator band reminds me that the Furyans await me in my solarium.

With a sigh, I gather my tools, stack the empty seedling trays and whistle for Ctyren, who was napping under the spreading fronds of a native sourpahl by the river-bank the last time I saw him.

When he does not come to me, I look around for the hellhound pup.  He stands on a rock by the river, legs braced, scales raised in a threat display.  Curious, I stand and follow his line of sight across the river.

Amongst the bushes lining the far side of the river, I see a ripple of movement.  I squint against the sun’s bright glare and try to make out what has set the greenery waving.

A ball of white feathers explodes out of the bushes.  One of the white birds I have seen feeding along the shore.  It weaves across the river, madly flapping wings throwing up sprays of water that flash gold in the sunlight, and crashes to the ground not far from where Ctyren and I stand.  Bright blood smears the white feathers.

I approach it cautiously.  When it does no more than tremble, I kneel next to it and gently lift one wing.

Bright black eyes peer up at me.  It makes a tiny, hurt cry that stirs something primal in me.  Before I can think, I’ve gathered it up in my arms.  It lays its head against my suit and I murmur soothingly to it.

Cytren’s growl brings my head up.

“Oh, don’t be so possessive . . .”  I trail off when I see that the lupinarus is still staring across the river.  At an insectiod head with three sets of branching horns that has lifted itself above the line of the bushes and is staring fixedly at the small bundle in my arms.  And at me.

“Xia help me,” I whisper.  The bird makes a low, terrified keening noise.

I back away from the river-bank, holding the Antyon’s prey tight against my chest.  The river is wide and deep.  A swift current darkens the middle.  The predator will not be able to cross it.  But I will still feel better with the safety of Zibon’s walls around me.

The Antyon makes a chittering noise and bounds out of the bushes, shaking off a cloud of white feathers.  It splashes into the river without hesitation.  Its four back legs propel it through the water with terrifying speed.

“Run!” I scream at Ctyren, and tucking the bird under my arm, sprint towards the distant gray pillar of the Habitable.

I do not look back.  To look back is to stumble, running over the broken and unfamiliar ground.  To look back is to give in to my fear.  I keep my eyes fixed on the cliff-edge and the tall metal shape that rises from it.  But I can hear.  Above my own harsh breathing and the bird’s keening, I hear the splashing as the Antyon reaches the bank, the scraping of its claws over the rocks, the high, horrible chittering noise it makes as it comes after us.

Ctyren catches up with me, outpaces me.  I flee after him, pushing myself as hard as I dare.  Feeling the tightness of my chest, my lungs unable to expand fully with the baby pushing up against my diaphragm.  Feeling the pull of the strained muscle in my belly.  Smelling my own sweat and fear in the close confines of my fogging helmet.  Hearing the Antyon’s chittering growing louder behind me.  The bird under my arm goes mad, writhing and flapping.  I clamp my arm tighter around it.  I will throw it into the air at the last minute if the Antyon runs me down.  But I have seen the bird’s bloodied and broken wings.  It will not get far.  If the Antyon wins this race, it will feast on us both.

The chittering behind me grows louder, closer, and I know I am losing.  I push desperately for speed.  For my heavy legs to rise and fall faster.  For my laboring lungs to take in more air.  The Habitable is not far now.  I can see the dark mouth of the airlock that signals safety.

A winged shape rises suddenly over the cliff-edge, arrowing towards me.  Beside me, Ctyren whines in fear.  Hoping that the Antyon will be similarly startled, I push harder, running flat out with no thought but survival.  The skimmer bursts over me in a cloud of black ash, so low I’m knocked off my feet.  I curl as I fall, both to protect my belly and the injured creature under my arm.  The ground knocks the breath out of me and I lie stunned for a moment.  Long enough for the lupinarus to wriggle over to me and start licking my visor anxiously.  Long enough for the bird to cuddle against me, keening.  I hug both animals tightly.  Raising my saliva-streaked visor, I look back along the river.

The skimmer hovers a few meters away, and through its propulsive veil, I see the Beast leap onto the Antyon’s back.  It rears, and its high chittering fills my ears.  The Beast grabs one of its horns and twists the wedged-shaped head to one side.  The predator’s mandibles snap at the empty air.  With a roar I can hear even over the Antyon’s squeal, the Beast slices through the Antyon’s exposed neck with one of his huge, recurved blades.

The Antyon’s body shudders.  The Beast flings himself off the creature’s back as it collapses, still holding the severed, horned head in one hand.  He drops the head and paces toward me.

I rise shakily, clutching the lupinarus cub against my legs and the bird to my side.

“I—”

The Beast silences me with a shake of his head.  He reaches me, gathers me to him, wraps his arms around me.  So tightly the bird whimpers in protest.  The Beast peers down at the wriggling, white shape under my arm.

“It was hurt,” I whisper.

“You coulda been killed,” he says roughly, and holds me tighter.  I release the bird for fear of crushing it and it flops to the ground with an indignant squawk.

“Riddick, I couldn’t leave it—”

“Stop,” he says.  “Talking.”

I obey, returning his fierce embrace until Thaniel and the legionnaires reach us and we all return to the safety of Zibon.

 

The Beast watches as Nazya and I set up a stand in the corner of the sanctum.  “You’re not keepin’ that thing.”

“Just for a little while,” I say placatingly.  “Until it’s wings are healed.”

Nazya kneels to bolt the stand to the floor and I turn to where the Beast sits at his desk.  “I promise it won’t bother you.”

The Beast grunts and returns to his contemplation of the lens.  “It smells.”

“That’s just the antiseptic.  I’ll change its bandages tomorrow and it won’t smell anymore.”

“It’ll still smell,” he grumbles.

I turn back to my Handmaiden and roll my eyes.  Nazya hides a smile in her task.  Once she has bolted all four legs of the stand to the floor, I carefully transfer the bandaged bird to its perch.  It shuffles back and forth across the stand for a moment, then settles with a look of sleepy contentment and tucks its head under one wing.

“Oh, see,” I say.  “It just wanted a safe place to sleep.”

“Yeah, that’s why it makes that fucking racket whenever you put it down.”

Carrying the bird while Tomoetu examined me to ensure I sustained no injury from my close call with the Antyon, while we’ve treated the bird’s wounds and while the Weavers have made a stand for it has been a little wearing, but seeing it content makes the effort worthwhile.  “You won’t even know it’s here.”

The Beast grunts disbelievingly.

“I’ll go prepare your bath,” I offer, knowing that attending to his needs and returning to our routine will appease him.

“Yeah, I’ll be right there.”

I’m almost to the door when the bird lifts its head and makes its frightened, keening noise.  It flaps its splinted and bandaged wings as though it would follow me.

I rush back to it.  “No, no,” I say soothingly.  “I’ll be right back.”

It settles, but as soon as I try to leave the room, it begins to flap and keen again.  Finally, resignedly, I gather it onto my shoulder.  It tucks its head under my chin and I stroke its soft feathers.  It croons to me as I make my way out of the sanctum.

Behind me, the Beast gives a heavy sigh.  “It’s not sleepin’ with us, Liaden.”

 

I’ve settled the bird on the towel rack by the time the Beast joins me in the bath.  He gives it a sour, silver glance, but climbs into the bath without comment.

I kneel in the bath and wait for him to begin our ritual, which he does after a moment, relaxing back against the bath’s padded rim and stretching out his huge arms.  I begin with his right hand, washing the Antyon’s blood out of the webbing between his fingers and under his nails.

“I’m sorry,” I say softly.  He’s said nothing of my near escape.  Only held me tight, and watched me closely while Tomoetu examined me, as though his silver eyes might see some injury that the healer did not.  But I can feel the rage bubbling just below the surface of his mind, and I know that now we are alone, he will vent that rage.  I try to forestall him with an apology.

He opens one gleaming eye.  “For what?”

“You’re angry with me for being caught out in the open.  For putting myself in danger.  I’m sorry, Riddick.”

He relaxes back against the tub.  “I’m not angry at you.”

He’s not?  I lave my way up his arm carefully.  “You seem angry.”

“Thought I’d been pretty restrained.”

He has.  Which is so unlike him that it worries me.  “Angry in a restrained way?” I suggest.

He chuckles.  “I’m not angry at you.  You shouldn’ta been alone out there, but that’s not your fault and I’ll deal with that my own way.”  His voice drops into a tone so deep, so dark, that I shudder.

“I had Ctyren with me.”

“I know you did.”

I inch closer to him, until I can look into his face.  It’s peaceful, reposed, but there’s a deep line between his brows.  His rage-line.  He is furious, and someone is going to feel the brunt of that rage, even if it’s not me.  “Riddick—”

“Told you, I’ll deal with it my own way.  Let it go, Liaden.”

“Will you . . . will you require me to remain indoors?”  I don’t know if I can face such confinement, not with my garden and Furya’s beauty calling me so strongly.

“No.”  He doesn’t elaborate, and I sink back down onto my heels to continue his bath.

“I have been thinking about our guests,” I say, when it’s obvious he’s not going to say more on the subject.

He lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t open his eyes.  “Yeah?”

“I’ve been wondering if there is a way to make them feel more welcome.”

“Like what?”  He stretches and sighs when I work the sponge across his chest.  “Never liked baths so much before you started givin’ ‘em to me.”

I smile, even though his eyes are closed and he cannot see me.  He will feel my smile in my mind.  “I thought I would invite some of the Furyans to help me in the garden.”

He nods.  “I heard you invited some of ‘em to tea.”

“Yes.  Is that all right?”  I missed tea with the Furyans while Tomoetu examined me and I cared for my new pet.  Nazya has made my apologies and I hope that no damage has been done.

He shrugs.  “Sure.  ‘Long as I still get invited occasionally.”

I rise up so I can look into his face.  I had not considered how he might take my gesture.  “You are always welcome, my love.”

Another shrug, and with it the blankness in his mind that means he’s shielding himself from me.  “Still like to get invited.”

I lean over to kiss him softly.  “You have an open invitation,” I whisper against his mouth.  But I will be careful in the future to invite him from time to time.  So that he knows that he is wanted, not just welcome.

He returns my kiss, his mouth growing hungry, demanding.  His arms close around me.  “Bath’s over.  I’m clean enough.”

Although I have barely started bathing him, I know better than to protest.  I am surprised that he does not take me in the bath, as he often does, but perhaps he would prefer the warmth and softness of our bed.  That is no hardship.  I rise out of the bath with him.  He shrugs into his robe without even bothering to let me towel him dry, and waits while I put on my robe and collect the sleeping bird from the towel rack.

“I meant what I said.  It’s not sleeping with us.  No matter how much noise it makes.”

“Yes, my love.”  I bow my head to hide my smile.  His words are stern, but so were his words about Ctyren, in the beginning.  Now the pup sleeps across his feet.  There is great tenderness under his brusk exterior, and it has begun to spread from me to those around us.

He waits patiently in our bed while I settle the bird on its perch.  When I join him in the bed, he pulls me against his side and tangles his hand in my damp hair.  I frown against his shoulder.  This is a sleeping position, one of our favorites.  It is not a position from which he usually initiates lovemaking.  Perhaps he wants to try something new?

When he does nothing, lies still and silent under the soft touch of my skin, I ask, “Are you well, my love?”

He nods but does not answer me.  I kiss his shoulder, stroke his chest gently, gestures he can take as an invitation to make love, or to rest, as he chooses.

He evidently chooses rest, because the next noise I hear from him is a soft snore.

I settle my head on his shoulder and close my eyes, puzzled at this departure from his normal, energetic routine.  In all the time we have been traveling together, I have not known him to come back to bed in the middle of the day except to make love.  But perhaps these first few days in the company of others have been as wearing for him as they have been for me.  I cuddle against him, enjoying his warmth and closeness, and let them lull me to sleep.

 

“Liaden?”

I lift my head from the row I am hoeing when a shadow blocks the morning light and find Elkie’s crewman standing over me.

Already stiff after only an hour of hoeing, I straighten and smile at him.  “Hello, Inker.”

“Elkie-sent-me-to-see-what-I-could-do-to-help,” he says all in one breath.  “What-the-hell-are-you-doing?”

“Hoeing,” I say.  “Would you like to try it?”

I show him how and he sets to willingly.  I decide that between Inker and the ten Legionnaires who have joined me this morning, I have enough hoers and settle myself down amongst the clumps of cylophale to weed.

At lunch, I go to relieve Inker of his hoe.  He stretches out his back and flexes hands that will have blisters tomorrow.  “Rather rebuild a star drive,” he says.  At least hoeing has slowed down his rapid-fire speech.  “There’s got to be an easier way.”

“On Tarenge,” I say.  “Great machines did this work.  But Necromongers are warriors, not farmers, and we have no machines but our hands.”

Inker’s eyes spark beneath his thatch of black hair.  “Bet I could build you some.”

He disappears after lunch and I shrug mentally as I take up his hoe.  Not everyone is cut out to be a farmer.

But Inker surprises me and returns the next morning, his arms full.

“Lookie,” he says with a flourish, planting the thing he carries down in the dirt at my feet.  “The-answer-to-your-prayers.”

I survey the unprepossessing collection of parts.  Two treads jut from an irregular cylindrical body.  Saw-toothed blades jut from the body at odd angles, and a cluster of green eyes survey me with arachnid intensity from the middle of the monstrosity.

“What is it?” I ask warily.

“I-call-it-SuperHoe-just-watch.”  He removes a flat silver disk from one of the many pockets on his suit and points the disk at the mechanical monster.

It winks its disconcerting eyes at me, and then a flurry of dirt erupts around it.  It disappears in the upheaval and Inker hastily tugs me to one side as the ground churns.  A tremor shakes the loam, and the ground begins to fold oddly.  The debris that still litters the fields from Descent is sucked under the black earth, and a perfect furrow rises in its wake.

“Inker, that’s-that’s,” I stammer in surprise.  “It’s wonderful.”

“I-pulled-it-together-from-some-spare-parts.  Could-make-a-couple-more-if-you-need-‘em.”

“Yes, please.  Could you make other things?  I’d like an irrigation system in case the rains fail.  Some water dispensers would be wonderful.”

“Sure.  Come-down-to-the-junk-room-with-me-an’-tell-me-what-you-need.”

Stunned at my good fortune, I follow Inker back into the Habitable, beginning to describe all of the things with which I would like mechanical assistance as we shed our suits and head down to the ‘junk room.’  So caught up with the possibilities of this unexpected help, I don’t notice when Inker turns a corner and stops suddenly until I bump into his back.

“Oh, Inker, I’m sorry—”  I move to one side and see what he has seen.

The two people in the corridor before us are immediately recognizable by their hair: Greer’s dramatic sweep of salt and pepper, and Nadie’s equally dramatic fall of vibrant red.  Her hair is all I can see, with her face turned away and Greer’s huge body covering hers.  He pins her against the corridor wall, his head buried in her neck, knee between her thighs, holding her off the floor.

Inker makes a strangled sound in his chest, as though choking on something.

Greer lifts his head, and I see a number of things all at once.

The hand he holds to Nadie’s throat, fingers digging in below her jaw, so tight that her flesh around his hand is purple.  The torn edge of her gown, ripped open to her waist, exposing her pale breasts.

Hannelore is in my hand before I have time to think.  “Put her down.”

The Furyan’s eyes traverse me slowly, stopping at the bright edge of the knife in my hand.

“Or what?” he drawls.

“Or I’ll kill you.”

He snorts.  “You an’ what army?”

“You may best me, but every hand will be raised against you for what you do here.  Nowhere on Furya will be safe for you—”

“Yeah?  What’m I doin’ here?”

“Nadie is the Lord Marshal’s Concubine.  No man may touch her without his consent.  Put her down.”

“That broke dick?”  Greer sneers, but his hand drops away from Nadie’s throat.  She draws breath with a shuddering gasp and rolls her head against the wall to look at me.  Her eyes are wide with terror.

“I will ask a third time, Greer.  The fourth time it will be Hannelore that asks.  Put.  Her.  Down.”

The Furyan steps back abruptly and Nadie drops to the floor.  She curls over herself, pulling together the torn edges of her gown with shaking hands.  Greer stands over her, thrusting his hips forward so that his pelvis would brush her face if she didn’t shudder away from him.

“Don’t go nowhere, Red.  Think I’ll have a word with your lord ‘n’ master.  See if he feels like sharin’.”

“Nadie, to me,” I snap, sickened by his cruelty.  The Beast would never give a woman to this monster.

She begins to edge toward me, feeling her way along the corridor wall with one hand, trying vainly to hold her clothes together with the other, her face averted from the man looming over her.

Despite my fear of the Furyan, I close the gap between us in two strides and put my arm around her, pulling her to her feet.

Greer watches me darkly.  He rocks back and forth on his heels, leather creaking, stretching his pelvis obscenely.  “I’d ask him for a taste of you, too, bitch, but you’re too fat for me.”

I smile at him.  The only taste of me he will ever have is the kiss of my blade.  “Do you have business here, Greer?”

“Yeah, and it ain’t any of yours.  So fuck off.”

“What happens in Zibon and to its people _is_ my business.  Both the Lord Marshal and I take a very specific interest in the welfare of our people.  _All_ our people.”  I tighten my arm around Nadie.

He growls, a sound both so like and so unlike the Beast’s that it makes me shiver.  “You keep gettin’ up in my face, we’re gonna have a problem.”

“I already have a problem with you, Greer.  Make no mistake about it.”

His shoulders swell and I can tell it is with the effort not to strike me.  But fear, perhaps of the arcane weapon I hold, or perhaps of the man whose shadow looms invisibly behind me, keeps his hands at his sides.

And as long as he is afraid, I need not be afraid of him.  “You should go,” I say with cool authority.

“I got business with him.”  The Furyan’s dark eyes slide to Inker.  So focused on Greer and Nadie, I had almost forgotten him.

“Whaddoyouwant?”  Inker’s speech is faster than ever.

“I hear you can fix anythin’.  Got a problem with a stabilizer on the _Nellie_.”

“I-could-look-at-it-tomorrow.”

Greer glowers.  “What’re you doin’ now?”

“Helping Liaden,” Inker says, slowly and distinctly.

Greer’s eyes shift to me and the look in them, which might have been merely misogynistic dislike, shifts to full-blown hatred.  Knowing I have made an enemy, and a bad one, sends another shiver down my spine.  But I control it and meet Greer’s gaze levelly.

“See you tomorrow then,” Greer says to Inker.  He pushes past me, but pauses to grab a handful of Nadie’s hair and tug her head back sharply.  “See you tomorrow, too, Red.  Count on it.”

With a flick of Hannelore’s razor edge, I sever the hair Greer holds.  Nadie’s head snaps forward, and she sags against me.

Greer stares in surprise at his bright handful for a moment.  Then his eyes narrow and his lip curls into a sneer.  “I’ll hold on to this.”  With obscene pleasure, he shoves the hank of hair down the front of his pants.

Nadie shudders and buries her face in my shoulder.

“Perhaps it will keep you warm at night,” I say unpleasantly.

Greer thrusts his face so close to mine I can feel his fetid breath on my cheek.  “I’ll see you tomorrow, too, you fat fuckin’ bitch.”

I open my soul and let every ounce of Daixian huntress pour into my eyes.  “I look forward to it.”

Greer steps back, and his eyes flare blue-white.  He stares at me, then shakes himself and strides off, deeper into the Habitable.

It is only after he is gone, and I let my eyes drop in relief, that I realize the shine of his eyes was the reflection of my Collar, glowing so brightly that Inker squints against the glare.

“Nadie-are-you-okay?”

“Oh, Inker!” she cries, and pushes away from me to collapse into his arms.

With a sigh, I sheathe Hannelore and resign myself to another day of manual labor.  I pat Inker on the shoulder as I turn and head back towards the exit.

He looks up from where he has wrapped Nadie deep into his body.  “Uh-Liaden—”

I flip a forgiving hand at him.  “Nadie needs you more than I do.”

He gives me a grateful nod before burying his head back in the tight clutch of flesh.  Leaving him to comfort Nadie, I head back out into the light.

 

With a sigh of delight, I lower my feet into the gentle ripple of the Anzoa and let its coolness wash away the dust and heat of the day.  I have wanted and awaited this moment, when the healers finished their inoculations and I could enjoy the glory of Furya against my skin.  I lift my face to the warm breeze and feel the light from the setting sun play over my cheeks.  I have seen sunsets on many worlds, but has there ever been one so beautiful?  I cannot remember one.  All the sunsets in my memory are stained with the ash of Conquest.

Nothing dims the Furyan sunset.  Bands of luminescence spill across the sky.  Crimson and salmon along the horizon.  Gold above the scarlet crescent of the star Kreon as it sinks into Furya’s darkening sea.  Gold so bright it blinds with its brilliance.  Dazzling and nearly obscuring the fabulous violet hue that ripples across the upper atmosphere.  I sigh at Furya’s bounty, spread across the sky before me, and take deep breaths of the clean, river-scented air.

Behind me, a sigh echoes mine, startling me out of my appreciation of the sunset.  I glance back and find the Beast standing behind me, his arms crossed over his chest.  Guiltily, I glance at the locator on my wrist, which has not beeped, and then at the two legionnaires wading in the river not far from me, overturning rocks in search of the small, orange Furyan crawlish.  They’re oblivious to the time, as is Ctyren, flopped over a sun-warmed rock on the riverbank with the Bird perched on his spine-ridge, observing the legionnaires’ efforts with interest.

“Forgive me,” I say to the Beast, reaching for my boots.

He glances down at me, his goggles flashing red in the sunset.  “For what?”

I hesitate, my hand hovering over my boots.  “Aren’t you here to . . . collect me?”

He smiles, but there is something weary and strained in his expression.  “Nope.  Came to watch the sunset with you.”

“Oh.”  I return his smile, hoping mine is as brilliant as the sky.  “There is nothing I would like better.”

He climbs down over the rocks to where I sit.  His movements are as smooth and graceful as ever, but he moves slowly.  When he seats himself on the rock behind me and circles me with his arms, he sighs again, as though glad of a moment’s rest.

“My love, are you well?”

“Yeah.  Lowie got me.”  With a slight twist, he shows me a long pink wheal that scores his forearm from elbow to wrist.

I start to rise.  “Cays should see to that.”

He tightens his arms around me.  “It’ll keep.  Barely hurts anymore.”

I examine the wound.  “It looks like a burn.”

“Yeah.  They got some kinda coating on ‘em.  Slimy.  Sand doesn’t stick to it.  Burns like acid.”

“Did it get you anywhere else?”

“Not before I got it.”  He draws up his knees on either side of me.  I lean forward and circle his knees with my arms so we sit entwined.  It is a position we often adopt in his bath, comfortable and familiar.

We sit in companionable silence for several moments.  I drink in the glorious sunset, lifting my face to the light.  Enjoying the warmth of the setting sun on my skin.  When I sense that the Beast’s gaze is on me rather than the scenery, I glance back over my shoulder.

“Can you see the colors?”  I know from his memories that the alterations to his eyes have left him partially color-blind.  Even through his special goggles, he does not see some shades well.  “I could describe them for you.”

“Tell me something else instead.”  He rubs his cheek against the nape of my neck, bared where I’ve coiled my hair high on my head to keep it out of the way as I garden.  “Tell me about that.”  He tilts his head toward the neat rows of seedlings dotting the field above the riverbank.

His interest in my garden warms my heart as much as Furya’s glory.

“Taruut.  We planted the first field this afternoon.  I had over twenty volunteers today.  I know I have you to thank for that.”

He shrugs against my back.  “Keeps ‘em busy.”

“They’re very enthusiastic.”  I chuckle, recalling the legionnaire I found enthusiastically pulling out caracoatta, mistaking it for the poisonous belk bush.  “They’ve done well with the hoeing so far, and we’ll make even faster progress once Inker’s machines finish preparing the soil for us.”  Thinking of Inker reminds me of the scene in the hallway.  “Riddick, there’s something I must tell you.  Has Greer spoken to you?”

“No.  Haven’t seen him since the other night.  Thought he’d gone back to his ship.  He been botherin’ you?”

I sigh and lean back against him, settling deep into the safety and warmth of his arms.  “I have made an enemy of him.  But that is not my chief concern.  I came across him with Nadie today—“

He grunts.  “He can have her.”

“No, it didn’t seem . . . as though it was her choice.  I think he would have forced her if Inker and I hadn’t interrupted him.  When I warned him off, he said he would speak to you about sharing her with him.  Please, Riddick, don’t.”

His high, discontent grumble.  “You sure she didn’t ask for it?  She can come on like a freight loader.”

Sudden fear grips me.  He refused to save Gennica from a fate worse than death because he thought she was a threat.  Will he do the same to Nadie?  I know he is indifferent to her.  I shiver at the possibility that his indifference might condemn Nadie to Greer’s cruel embrace.  “No woman could want that.  Please, ask her.”

I feel him ruffle through my mind and I call up the memory of Greer pinning Nadie to the wall, her throat purple, her dress torn.  He sighs heavily.  I recall the terror in Nadie’s eyes, focus on the memory until it is as bright and clear as the sunset in my mind.

“I get the point, Liaden.”  He shifts against me.  “I’ll ask her, that’s all I’ll promise.”

I sigh, and my sigh has nothing to do with the sunset.  “I know she irritates you.”

“Yeah, she does.  I only picked her ‘cause her looks bothered you.”  I’d known he was furious with me at the time, but I hadn’t realized he’d selected Nadie as his concubine just to strike at me.  I shake my head at our mutual folly.  “If I’d known what a pain in the ass she’d be, I’da tossed her on the first cut,” he says.

“You need not endure her.  You can dismiss her whenever you like.”

“She’s still got her uses.  This might be one of ‘em.”

Horrified, I twist in his arms, ignoring the twinge that shoots across my belly.  “You wouldn’t throw Nadie to that monster.”

Would he?

He stares stubbornly at the sunset.  Weariness stamps heavy lines around his mouth.

“Riddick, please.”

“Leave it, Liaden.”  He lifts his head so the red-gold reflection fills his goggles.  “I wanna watch the sunset.”

I settle back against him.  He will feel the worry in my mind if I dwell on Nadie’s fate.  I try to put it aside and enjoy these moments with him.  The sun is barely more than a glowing sliver on the horizon now.  The sky above has darkened to the deep magenta and puce of night.  A pale blue circle, Furya’s neighbor moon, Gyes, is rising.  I haven’t seen Gyes except from orbit, but even that novelty fails to hold my attention.  I cannot keep my mind from returning to Nadie, and the attendant worry of the other Furyans.  I have not seen Shirah since the night of her return, but it is a fool’s hope to believe that the problem she presents is so easily resolved.

The Beast makes his high grumble again and releases me.  He rises slowly to his feet.

“My love?”

“You head inside.  I don’t want you out here in the dark.  Not until the rest of the shock wall’s up and we’re sure there’s nothin’ left inside it.”  He raises his voice.  “Faz, Cutter.”

The two legionnaires hunting crawlish snap to attention and splash towards us.  I hadn’t realized the Beast knew the names of each legionnaire that accompanied us.  I have never seen or spoken to these two before they volunteered to help with the garden yesterday.

“Take ‘er inside.”  He nods at me. 

“Yes, Lord Riddick,” the lead legionnaire, Faz, I think, says.  I glance from his erstwhile face to the Beast.

“Bodyguards?” I ask softly.

“Told you I’d deal with it my own way.  Go on inside.  Take the mutt.  And Stinky.”  He cocks his thumb at the Bird, still perched on Ctyren’s back, but now perched on one leg with its head under its bandaged wing.  “I got one more thing to do.”

“You won’t miss your bath?”  I try to keep anxiety out of my tone.  He never misses his bath, but enjoying the sunset has delayed us and if his last task is lengthy, we will be hard pressed to manage even a quick bath before dinner.

He smiles slowly.  A real smile that erases the lines around his mouth.  “Do I ever?”

I smile in return.  My smile fades as he turns away, climbs the bank and walks into the twilight, toward a distant group of figures who are shouldering their hoes and starting back to the Habitable.  I pause before drawing on my boots, watching, curious as to what business the Beast has that keeps him from his bath.

The legionnaires splash up the bank.  Faz offers me a hand over the rocks and I cannot linger without raising his curiosity.  My own curiosity niggles.  What business does the Beast have with my volunteers?  And why have his shoulders drawn up into such hard, tense lines as he’s walked towards them?

“My Lady?”  Faz turns to follow my line of sight.

“My apologies.  Could you carry these for me?”  I hand him my satchel of gardening tools so that I can collect the Bird.  Ctyren whines a little when I take the Bird from his back.  The lupinarus cub seems to have appointed himself the avian’s nursemaid and takes umbrage whenever I interfere with his care.  That the Bird is not a lupinarus and may be discomfited by some of that care, particularly the care that involves being licked all over by a scaly lupinarus tongue, does not seem to occur to the pup.  “We’re going in,” I reassure him.

But I cannot help a glance back over my shoulder as we follow the river toward the Habitable.  The people in the fields are dark silhouettes between the shadowed ground and darkening sky.  The Beast is easily recognizable by the breadth of his shoulders and the rigidity of his stance.  He has stopped, facing another figure, while the rest of the volunteers continue on to the Habitable.

In the fading light, I cannot see faces, or make out the details of forms.  But I can see that the Beast has crossed his arms over his chest.  And that the person he speaks to has hunched into a defensive posture.

“Lady Liaden, Lord Riddick wants you inside before dark,” Faz says.

“Yes, I’m sorry.”  I quicken my steps when I realize the other volunteers have almost caught up with us.  We troop into the Habitable together and I show the volunteers where to store their tools.  They all look weary from a long day of hoeing under Furya’s hot sun, but still enthusiastic.  I take the time to thank each of them, and it is only when I have said farewell to my two erstwhile bodyguards and returned to the sanctum that I realize that my most enthusiastic supporter, Thaniel, was not among them.


	9. Chapter 9

The Beast’s bath is a quick, quiet affair.  We do not have the time to enjoy ourselves, nor the privacy, as Cays arrives to heal his arm shortly after he climbs into the water.  Necromonger healing still pains him and I offer him the comfort of my hand, but he declines with a small shake of his head.  Afterwards, he is silent.  But at least the worst of the strain has left his face and when I make a small joke while dressing him, he smiles at me.

I dress simply for dinner.  A long, pale gray, lorganza gown ornamented only with Hannelore and the Rift clap in my unbound hair.  The gown is unfashionably loose; the tight court fashions bind my growing belly unbearably.  I sigh at my reflection in the mirror, not just because of the unflattering lines of the gown, but also because it feels stifling after having the sweet breezes of Furya kiss my skin all day.

Nayza hands me a pair of moonstone earrings that I often wear.  Their silvery iridescence reminds me of the Beast’s eyes.  “These will cheer you up, Mistress.”

“Have you been outside yet?”

“Not yet.  What it is like?”

“Beautiful,” I say wistfully.  “I wish I could stay out there night and day.”

“Bugs’d eat you alive,” the Beast says from the doorway.

I start.  “I didn’t hear you, my Lord.”

“You ready?”  At my nod, he holds out his arm.  “C’mon.”

I take his arm and let him lead me to the dining hall.  He seems as little inclined to conversation as he was in his bath.  Silently, we join the crowd in the dining hall and sit in our customary places at the head table.  Chef serves us as efficiently as ever, but I find I have little appetite.  Worry oppresses me as much as my gown and after preparing the Beast’s plate, I pick at the food on my own.

 

“Liaden, do you want some Cark?  Surely a little won’t hurt.”

I look up at Sanjula’s words.  It is not Sanjula I focus on, but the woman sitting beside her.  Tirea has discarded her Weaver’s uniform for a simple, sleeveless gown.  The rose-red fabric is gathered under her breasts, then falls loose to her waist.  I glance under the table to see the rest of the gown.  It falls over her knees, to mid-calf.  The skirt of the gown is split for ease of movement and a pale underskirt peaks out through the slit.  Instead of boots, she wears leather sandals, open all the way down to her toes and only held on with thin lacing that cross-crosses over her foot and up her calf.  She looks so cool and comfortable.  My own gown weighs on me like lead.

“Tirea, your dress is lovely,” I say.

The Weaver glances up from her food, surprise furrowing her brow.  “It doesn’t offend you, Lady?  I’ve been so hot today.  I know it isn’t fashionable.”

“New world, new ways.”  I wave my hand dismissively.  “I’m envious.  I know you must be very busy, but could I ask you to make me one when you have some time?”

“Of course.”

“Me, too,” Sanjula says.  “I feel like I’m suffocating in this.”  She wears a tight court gown of black scalecloth, with a high collar that frames her face and plunges low to show off her cleavage.  Extremely fashionable, and, I can imagine, extremely stuffy.

I smile at Tirea.  “I think you’ve started a trend.”

Tirea blushes.  “I’ve actually made several already, so if you’d like to come to my workroom, I can alter a few to fit you.”

“Damalis bless you,” Sanjula says.  “Can it be right after dinner?  Another hour in this dress and I may faint.”

I begin to shake my head, not wanting to impose on the overburdened Weaver, but Tirea nods.  I turn to the Beast, who will have listened to this conversation, even if he hasn’t been a part of it, as is his way.  “Do you mind?”

“Nope,” he responds immediately.  “It’ll gimme a chance to ask that question I gotta ask.”

He’s referring to Nadie, and although I’d very much like to be present during that conversation, I have the sense that he does not want me there.

“Thank you for that,” I say softly.

He glances down the table to where Nadie sits with Inker and Elkie’s other crewman, Bengt.  She shows no sign of the violence done to her so few hours ago.  Her neck is smooth and unblemished.  Her vibrant hair is swept up into an elegant chignon, hiding the hank cut out of it.  She smiles flirtatiously at Inker and rests her hand on his forearm as he says something to her that I cannot hear over the general buzz of conversation.

The Beast’s silver eyes shift back to me.  “Don’t thank me yet.”

I feel the heat rising into my cheeks and lower my head to stare at my uneaten food.  “She doesn’t make it easy,” I murmur.

The Beast chuckles.  “No argument there.”  He slides his arm around me and gives me a gentle squeeze.  “Go enjoy your pamper party.”

“Just one gown,” I say quickly, knowing the issue of payment has begun to rear its head now that we’ve left the Armada.

“Have as many as you want.  Told you, I don’t give you enough.”

“Truly, I want for nothing.  But I would like a gown like that.”  I nod at Tirea.  “It doesn’t bother you, does it?”

“Wear whatever you want.  I don’t want you faintin’ on me.”  He chews a piece of Antyon meat thoughtfully.  “Again.”

The heat in my cheeks becomes an inferno.  Is he referring to the time that I passed out from hunger during our first days together, when I still believed in Zylaw and was fasting in his memory?  But he knows that is a painful wound, the stupidity that led to the death of my friend, Aimi.  And we are beyond the time when he would needle me just to make me show that I cared.  Aren’t we?

The Beast leans close and whispers in my ear.  “You forgettin’ the time you passed out on me in the bath?”

 

My embarrassment, burning so brightly in my face, begins to subside.  Now that he says it, I do remember the time that I fainted in his bath.  It was after he’d made love to me three times in quick succession.  “That was exhaustion, as I recall.”

He grins at me before returning to his conversation with his commanders.  A true, wicked, lavicious grin.  And as I return to my conversation with Tirea and Sanjula, it occurs to me that I haven’t seen such a grin on his face in days.

 

I leave the Beast at table to accompany Tirea and Sanjula to the Weavers’ workroom.  It feels odd to leave him so.  We always leave together, safe and united.  Tonight he remains, surrounded by his commanders.  Ctyren sits by his feet with the Bird on his back, probably more in the hopes of a morsel from the Beast’s plate than to guard him, but the effect is the same.  I should not fear for him.  But I do.  I always do.  I glance around the hall, taking in the location of the Furyans, Cawl, Hardy, and Elkie, sitting peacefully further along the table, as well as the absence of Shirah and her Guardian.  Greer and Booth sit at a table of legionnaires, talking too loudly and drinking too much Cark.  Greer avoids my eyes when I glance at him, but Booth’s mad, burning gaze meets mine.  I look away quickly.

My eyes return to the Beast, even as I follow Tirea through the hall.  He looks up from his conversation with Vaako.  The corners of his eyes crinkle.  His unsmile.  He returns to his conversation, but I know that he has felt my concern, and wants me to go anyway.  With a lightened heart, I hasten after Tirea.

In the Weavers’ workrooms, Tirea leads us through rooms of drafting tables, vats and half-finished furnishings, to a room where gowns in various stages of construction hang from metal mannequins.  The room looks like a rookery, and I suppress a smile.  The Necromonger aesthetic is still very much in evidence.

The gowns that Tirea has made hang on a rack at the back of the workroom, so short in comparison to the trailing court gowns, and from fabric so light in comparison to the heavy scalecloth, that they look like a flight of butterflies.  Tirea presses a pale pink one on me.  Holding it to my belly, all I can envision is a nerithra lily, with its weirdly bulbous pink buds that explode into frilly magenta stalks late in the growing season.  They are inelegant plants, and their pollen makes me sneeze.

Tirea insists, and presses another gown on me, pale blue as a farinche egg and with a violet underskirt that reminds me of the Furyan sunset, when I acquiesce.  She takes my new measurements – and surely her lens must be off when she claims that I have only gained four centimeters around the bust – and alters the two dresses with deft slices of her cizor.  As she holds a finished dress against me to double-check the alterations, she says, “I hope you’ll wear this tomorrow at the beach.”

“Tomorrow?”  I had planned to spend the day planting now that Inker’s machines have prepared the soil.

“The Lord Marshal gave everyone tomorrow off.  We’re taking skimmers to that black sand beach to the south.  Don’t you remember?”

I remember the Beast agreeing to a day of relaxation at the beach, and threatening to drag me there by my hair if I refused to leave my garden, but I didn’t realize it would be so soon.  There’s still so much to do in my garden.

“Li, please come with us,” Sanjula says, turning from the rack where she’s examining a gown.  “It won’t be half as much fun without you and the Lord Marshal.  He’s promised to show me how to spear-fish.  Please, he won’t come if you don’t.”

I shake myself quickly.  I said I would go, and no matter how much awaits me in my garden, I will not reneg on my promise, nor spoil everyone else’s enjoyment of the day.  And perhaps, away from Zibon and the cares that weigh on him here, the Beast will smile wholeheartedly again.  “Yes, of course I’ll come.”

“Oh, good.”  She hands a green dress to Tirea.  “Could I have this one?  It reminds me of the ocean.”

I leave them, Tirea altering the green dress while Sanjula chatters happily about fishing, and make my way to the sanctum.

When I reach our chambers, I find them dark.  I move through our bedchamber silently, from long practice, without bothering to turn on the lights, thinking to put my new gowns away and return to the Beast in the dining hall.  When I near the bed, I hear a noise I do not expect.

Quiet, even breathing.

I pause next to the bed, clutching my new gowns in one hand, Hannelore in the other.  Listening.  Stretching my eyes in the dark.  Who invades our Sanctum?  After a moment, I recognize the depth and rhythm.  The Beast.

I wait another moment.  He can see perfectly well in the dark.  I wait for him to speak, and when he doesn’t, listen more closely.  Is he asleep?  Yes, his breathing is slow and even.

I pad as silently as I can into my wardrobe, hang up the gowns and shed my heavy lorganza dress for a gardening shift and boots.  It’s still early.  If I join the Beast in bed now, I will only wake him, tossing and turning as I try to sleep.  Instead, I slip out of the Sanctum, seal it carefully behind me and make my way deeper into the Habitable.

As I walk through the quiet halls, I turn the Beast’s strange new sleeping patterns over in my head.  We have gone to bed this early before, but not to sleep.  Have these first few days on our new world been so exhausting for him?  I know he has spent much of his time hunting.  I thought it was because he enjoyed it.  But perhaps keeping the inhabitants of Zibon safe from Furya’s less hospitable natives has overwhelmed him.  Perhaps he has taken my concerns about feeding our people too much to heart and worn himself out providing fresh meat.  I remember the Antyon meat served at dinner with a guilty pang.  I resolve to speak with Vaako and Daray tomorrow to see if any of the Beast’s duties can be delegated.  He should be able to enjoy his first days on our new world, not be so exhausted by them that he retires right after our evening meal.

I make my way to my small garden in the depths of the Habitable.  I have neglected my Caprunes since arriving on Furya, and they do not take kindly to being ignored.

I am so engrossed with tending my roses, that I do not notice my visitors until I straighten from pruning the last bush in the main Caprune bed.  The Elemental, Aereon, sits on a gilded metal bench, gazing out at my rose garden.  Ctyren curls at her feet, with the Bird a smaller, fluffier white circle within the lupinarius’s matte grey scales.  I smile at the dozing animals.

Aereon reaches out and strokes the Bird’s white feathers.  Her hand flickers in a spectral wind as she moves and I wonder if the Bird actually feels her touch.  If it does, it does not stir.

“Hello, Liaden.”

“Aereon,” I return her greeting warmly.  I learned to respect the Elemental during our last weeks with the Armada.  Although I still find her calculating presence somewhat unnerving, I understand now that there is no malice in it.  I cut a deep red Caprune rose and hand it to her as I join her on the bench.

She takes it and sniffs the flower appreciatively.  “A subtle scent.  Ah, I recognize this.”

I bow my head.  The perfume I wear on special occasions is distilled from the oil of the red Caprunes.

“Your garden is exquisite.”

“I had much time to tend it while we were traveling.”  Which is fortunate, given how I have neglected it since our arrival.  But the bots have kept it reasonably tidy in my absence, and a few hours attention is all that is needed.

“I went outside today to see how your project fares.”

“What did you think?”

“Very ambitious.  Between you and Riddick, you will tame Furya no time.”

I shake my head ruefully.  “I do not think Furya will ever be tamed.  But I hope that we will be able to carve out a place where we can survive, and prosper.”

The Elemental puts her hand lightly on my belly.  “Are you prospering, Liaden?”

I try not to start.

“Forgive me.”  Aereon withdraws her hand.

“No, forgive me.  Riddick and I have been alone for so long that I have forgotten the company of others.”  Despite my apology, she does not try to touch my belly again, and I hide my relief.  I am unused to anyone but the Beast touching me.  Nor is that a situation I feel any need to remedy.

“How are you feeling?”

“Well enough.”

“You’re quite far along now, aren’t you?” 

I nod.  Aereon knew of my pregnancy from the day I conceived, having somehow calculated it along with the fall of Zhylaw and the fate of the Necromonger horde.

“And Riddick?  Is he prospering?  I have seen little of him since we arrived.”

I twist my hands together in my lap, deciding whether or not I can confess my fears to her.  There can be no harm in it, and perhaps she can help calculate some resolution to my problems.  “He is not as . . . content . . . as I expected.  He was happy while we were traveling.  I have never seen him so light-hearted.”

The Elemental nods.  “You have brought him great joy.  I am ever more pleased that you did not take your own life, as you once planned.”

I shrug absently.  That seems long ago.  “But since we’ve arrived, he smiles less and less.  When we were with the Armada, millions were under his command, but he did not seem to feel the weight of that responsibility so keenly as he does the well-being of the twelve hundred who have followed him here.”

“Perhaps he cared little for those millions, and finds himself caring much more for those who have accompanied him.  Caring is always a burden.  A particularly heavy burden for a man like Riddick, who has tried so hard in the past not to care.” 

Her words carry the unmistakable ring of truth.  “Has he?  Tried not to care?”

“Doubtless you know more of his past than I.”  She would be horrified if she realized how little I do know of his past.  My ignorance stings.  “I know only rumor, and speculation,” she continues.  “But both tell of a man who has always been alone, and who has sought to remain so.”

“He does not seek solitude any longer,” I say, remembering his words after making love to me in my solarium. “I would not have him be lonely, but neither would I wish this burden on him.  There must be a balance.”

Aereon smiles sagely.  “Of course there is a balance.  It only waits for you, and Riddick, to find.”

“And will we find it?”  Of anyone, she should know.

“I cannot say with certainty.  As when Riddick took the throne, there are many variables at play here which may have a significant effect on the outcome.  But the odds of finding a balance can only improve if you seek it out, rather than hoping that events will conspire in your favor.”

“Variables.”  I lean across the bench and clip a nodding spray of iridacia.  The plant’s light scent, small white flowers and glossy foliage will make a pretty foil to the red Caprune the Elemental still holds.  I take the rose from her, twist the iridacia around it and hand the posy back to her.  “I suppose you mean Shirah.”

“She is one variable, but there are others.  I confess that the mercenary interests me as well.”

“Elkie.  She interests me, too.”  And for unfathomable reasons, I interest her.  “Have you noticed how like Riddick she is?”

Aereon strokes the delicate petals of the iridacia with ephemeral fingers.  “You are in a better position than I to make such an observation.”

“Then take my word on it.”  I gather a few more sprays of iridacia, thinking I might make a centerpiece for my solarium.  “I have to wonder about her motives.”  Actually, it is the Beast who questions her motives, but his concern has infected me.

“As many have wondered about Riddick’s.”

I incline my head, acknowledging the truth of her words.  “Riddick’s at least, should be clear to all now.”

“Perhaps, given time, Elkie’s will become similarly transparent.  As for the motives of others, Shirah has been quite open about hers.”

“And quite vocal,” I say ruefully.  “Elkie warned me about this Hunt Shirah intends to call.  She thinks I can keep Riddick out of it.”

“Do you intend to do so?”

I twist the stems of iridacia around in my hands.  “He says he wants no part of it.  And why should he?  If leading us weighs so heavily on him now, why would he want to take on more responsibility?  The surviving Furyans offer us nothing.”  I echo his words, although having met them, I am not sure I agree.  “They are just more mouths to feed.  Those that have returned, like Elkie and Greer, seem only to challenge him.  Why would he want to take up the mantle of Furyor?”

“Nevertheless, it may be his.  He had no designs on the Necromonger throne, but he took it, and held it, all the same.  Riddick is not one to ignore an opportunity.”

“No, he’s not.  And sometimes responsibilities are forced on him, no matter how much he tries to evade them.”  Like the throne.  Like the child I carry.  He has always seemed to want the baby, sometimes more than I do, but it was not a responsibility he sought.

“And you, Liaden?  How do you feel about him becoming the Furyor?  Knowing, as you do, what must come with it?”

“Shirah, you mean?”  I glance at her face and find her frowning, as though truly concerned.  “What of your neutrality, Aereon?”

“Being an observer is sometimes a painful position.  Particularly when I calculate the likelihood of harm coming to someone who has done nothing to deserve it.”

I spread the iridacia stems across my lap.  “One of the attractions of the Necromonger faith was the promise of a life without pain.  An end to pointless, undeserved suffering.  In turning my back on that faith, I must accept a return to a life of pain.  Are you telling me that’s what my future holds?”

“As I have told you, there are too many variables in play for me to say anything with certainty.  But one of the many potential paths I see includes Riddick becoming the Furyor, and Shirah demanding that he set you aside.”

I smooth my hands over the iridacia.  “Demanding things of Riddick usually ends badly.  But I know that she will not want to share him with me.”  I heave a deep sigh, recalling the fears that Riddick’s sweet words have done so much to allay, but which still malinger at the back of my mind.  “The reality of my station is that Riddick may take any number of concubines, or companions, if he so chooses.  Indeed, he will be unique among the Lords Marshal if he does not do so.”

Aereon chuckles.  “Riddick is nothing if not unique.”

“True—”

Aereon puts her hand over mine.  “Liaden, I find myself in an odd position.  We Elementals confine ourselves to observation.  We do not seek to affect the outcome of the events we observe.  But in this case, in _your_ case, I find myself doing so.  Again and again.  Why do you think that is?”

“I have no idea.”

“I like to think that it is because of Riddick.  The force of his will distorts all around him, much like a singularity.  This distortion has caused me to instigate when I should confine myself to observing.  So I will charge Riddick with my interference, and as I once urged you to turn aside from your plans to follow Zhylaw to the Threshold and give Riddick the love he so desperately needed, so now I will urge you to exert whatever influence you have with Riddick, and I believe that influence is considerable, to keep him from becoming the Furyor.  I foresaw only death and despair, for hundreds of worlds and millions of individuals, if Riddick held the Necromonger throne without you at his side.  And now I see only misery and grief, not only for you and Riddick but all who inhabit Furya, if Riddick becomes the Furyor.”

Her prophesy chills me and I withdraw my hands from hers to rub them up and down my arms, feeling the stickiness of the iridacia sap on my fingers.  “It is not just the responsibility then?”

“Imagine, with me, a Furya where Shirah demands that Riddick set you aside.  A Furya divided into those who follow Riddick and those who follow you.  You inspire more loyalty than you know, Liaden.  Do not believe that all who have come to Furya have come solely because of Riddick.  Imagine, then, Zibon divided.  Imagine Riddick sinking further and further into the well of his own grief, while Shirah rules in his name.  Unable to forgive you for holding Riddick’s heart, and unable to forget what the Necromongers did to her world, imagine a Furya where Shirah hunts you and your followers as the legionnaires now hunt Antyons.  Imagine the daughter you bear raped and murdered by Shirah’s son.  Imagine the fury, and retribution.  Imagine Riddick’s despair.  Imagine generation after generation of Furyans destroying when they should build, killing when they should sow.  Imagine Furya burning again when the next invaders come, weakened by years of such conflict.  Imagine all of that, and then let me tell you the odds, should Riddick join this Hunt.”

I shake my head.  “You’ve said enough.”

“Yes, I see I have.”  She touches my head, a brush of feathers.  “I am sorry, Liaden.”

“Do you truly see all that?”  I whisper.  The idea of Riddick taking Shirah, or any other woman, to his bed is a painful one.  But I had never thought beyond that single pain, and certainly never imagined what the future could hold.

“I see many scenarios.  But yes, I do see all of that.”

I put my hand on my belly, and the other over my eyes, while I think on what she has said.  Elkie gave me the same warning, if no hint of such terrible consequences.  Do the Furyan and the Elemental see clearly what I cannot?  I questioned Elkie’s motives, but I can find no reason to question Aereon’s.  Nor can I fault the advice the Elemental has given me in the past.  “I will speak to Riddick,” I say without raising my head.

“A more direct course of action may be required.”

I look up at her.  “What do you mean?”

The spectral wind that often blows around her ruffles her veils.  “Shirah’s most potent weapon is the chemistry the Furyans share.  I do not believe such a weapon can be countered with mere words.”

“Then what am I to do?”

Aereon smiles.  “Do you recall our first meeting?  I interrupted you in your study of a rather ancient art.”  I feel my cheeks heat with the memory.  She walked in while I was reviewing sexual techniques to use on the Beast.  “Throughout time, women have used such arts to manipulate those around them.  I commend these arts to you.”

Is she suggesting that I fellate the Beast into foregoing the Hunt?  While an entertaining thought, I do not give it much chance of success.  Aereon knows less about the Beast than she likes to think if she believes he can be controlled through sex.

But that is how Shirah seeks to control him.  Maybe Aereon only advocates countering Shirah like for like.

“I will think on it.”  Weary from gardening and oppressed by the Elemental’s warning, I straighten and gather the stems of iridacia that have fallen from my lap.  “You will forgive me if I bid you good-night.”

“Good-night, Liaden.”

She remains sitting on the bench while I collect Ctyren and the Bird.  The spectral wind that stirs her veils blows harder than before, and I wonder if it it driven by her emotions rather than by some other-dimensional physics.  If so, it is good to know that I am not the only one discomfited by her visions.

 

The sanctum is still dark when I return.  I move through it silently, settling the Bird on its perch, stripping off my gardening things, slipping into our bed.  The Beast’s breathing is loud in the silence, deep and even, until Ctyren leaps up onto the bed and settles across his feet.

“Mutt,” the Beast grumbles.

I take the opportunity to cuddle close to him, now that I can do so without waking him.  He tucks me against his side, draws my arm across his chest.  A sleeping position.   He doesn’t want to make love.  Disappointment adds a dolorous note to the dirge already playing in my heart.  “Shall I sing to you?” I whisper.

“Yeah,” he says.  His voice is already thinning with sleep.  I sing him a lullaby, low and soft, and before I reach the chorus, his breathing has resumed its even rhythm.

I lie in his arms, in the dark, and try not to imagine the terrible future the Elemental has described. 


	10. Chapter 10

I

I wake to faint daylight, and the soreness of my back and arms.  Although I am used to gardening, I am not used to hours of hoeing.  I am not sorry to have a day’s respite.

I stretch, feeling the strain in the backs of my legs.  Feeling the chill of the bedclothes.  I know without looking that the Beast is not beside me.  Another morning where he has risen before me, without waking me to slake his ardor.

I glance at his desk, but it is empty, the great lens blank.  The bottom of our bed is empty, too, and the Bird’s stand.  Ctyren and his avian charge must have accompanied the Beast.  I feel faint relief at knowing that the lupinarius is with him.  But stronger pique that he has left without making love to me, or even kissing me good-morning.

With sore muscles and sorer heart, I rise.  In front of my wardobe, I pause, contemplating what to wear.  The Beast has not shared his plans for the day with me, but I cannot believe we will leave for the beach before breakfast.  That is still hours off, if the faint golden dawn through my lens is anything to go by.  So I have some time, which I could spend in my garden.  But I do not relish the Beast’s mood if he truly has to drag me out of the garden by my hair.  To curtail my own impulses and satisfy Tirea, I draw on the pink gown she has made for me rather than a gardening shift.  I do not have any sandals to go with the gown, but a pair of soft boots that lace up my shins compliment it well enough.  I brush out my hair but leave it loose, a further deterrant from gardening, before making my way to botanics.

In my laboratory, I take stock of the seedlings and load a hover sled with sweetips to be planted.  I cross to Thaniel’s lens to leave a note for him about the sweetips when I hear a footfall behind me.

I turn slowly, mindful of my belly, and catch Thaniel as he retreats through the open door.

“Thaniel,” I call after him.  “I was just leaving you a message.”

He steps back into the lab, his eyes downcast, two spots of color burning high on his cheeks.

“Thaniel, what’s wrong?”

“I didn’t expect to find you here so early.  What’s the message?”

“I’m not going to be able to join you today—”

Thaniel looks up sharply, angrily.  “He forbade you after all?!”

“What?”

“Nothing, never mind.”

I cross the room to him.  “No, this is not nothing.”  I suspected that the Beast’s business last night concerned Thaniel, and that the business was not pleasant. “Did Riddick speak to you last night?”

He avoids my eyes.  “He asked about the progress of the garden.”

He asked me the same thing, but I thought it was no more than polite interest.  Now I have to wonder.  “And you said?”

“That it was coming along very quickly.  There are native fruits to be harvested already and what we’re planting will grow at an accelerated rate.”

All of which is true, and all of which the Beast knows already.  He and I discussed the effects of Furya’s high radiation extensively while traveling.  None of this warrants the intense discussion I witnessed from afar last night, or Thaniel’s embarrassment this morning.  “He was pleased to hear this, no doubt,” I say, probing a little.

Thaniel nods shortly, but still avoids my eyes.

“What else did you speak of, if I may ask?”

“Why don’t you ask _him_?”  Thaniel mutters.

“I’m asking you.  Because you are my friend,” I say, putting my hand on Thaniel’s arm.  “Whatever he said clearly upset you.”

Thaniel stares at my hand as if it were a viper.  He moves suddenly, away from me, into the center of the room, where he puts the hover sled of sweetip seedlings between us before speaking.  “He was very specific about that.”

“About what?”  I move to the other end of the sled and face him.

“He charged me with your welfare while you’re in the garden, but I’m not to touch you.  None of us are.”

What objection could the Beast have to Thaniel, or anyone else, touching me?  “You’re not to touch me,” I repeat.  At his nod, I ask, “Did Lord Riddick say why I am inviolate?”

Thaniel puts his hands on the edge of the sled and presses down so the stabilizers rock very slightly.  I haven’t overloaded the sled and it rights itself after a moment.  Thaniel grunts in approval, very much as the Beast does.  I roll my eyes, knowing that Thaniel will not see my expression, since he is still studiously avoiding my gaze.

When Thaniel seems disinclined to answer my question, I probe further.  “Did Lord Riddick not share his reasons with you, or is it that you will not share them with me?”

“Li, this isn’t about you.”

“No?”  I ask, hearing the sharpness in my own tone, feeling my irritation turn to anger.  “It seems very directly about me.  It also seems very directly about _us_ , since you refuse to discuss the problem with me.”

He finally looks up at me.  “You’re the last person I’d ever want to see hurt.”

His admission cools my anger.  “I know that.”

“He blames me for what happened.  With the Antyon.”

“That’s ridiculous.  You weren’t anywhere near me.”

Thaniel presses down on the sled again, his shoulders bunching, but the stabilizers resist the pressure.  “That’s the point.  I should have been close by.  I should have protected you.”

 _I’ll deal with it my own way_ , the Beast said.  And he has.  By hurting and embarrassing my blameless friend.  Thaniel is a scientist, not a warrior.  I am far more capable of defending myself than Thaniel is of protecting me.  “I do not hold you accountable.  Nor should Riddick.  I will speak to him.”  There is much, it seems, I need to speak with him about.

“Li, please, don’t.  He’ll only be angry I’ve told you.”

“No, this is not right.  You were not to blame, and it is unfair of Riddick to take out his wrath on you.  As for not touching me, that’s absurd.”  Despite my disinclination to touch anyone but the Beast, I hold my hands out to Thaniel as I move around the sled.  Thaniel rarely touches me, and I have certainly never found his touch as invasive as I found the Elemental’s last night.

Thaniel takes my hands, and then accepts a hug when I give it to him.  After a moment he steps back and looks down at me as I stand in the loose circle of his arms.  He brushes my hair back from my face.

“Elkie said I should tell you, but I wasn’t sure,” he says.  “I know things between you and the Lord Marshal . . . I know he can be difficult.  I didn’t want to make anything worse for you.”

That he shared this with Elkie before he shared it with me stings a little, but as I suspect they are lovers, I must accept this new closeness between them.  I smile up at him.  “Elkie’s right.  You should listen to the women in your life more often.”

“Li.”  He breathes, and lowers his face towards mine.  At the last moment, when I think he will kiss me and I will have to stop him and renew the strain between us, he turns his head, pulls me close and hugs me tight.  “I’ll always listen to you.”

“And I to you.  Which is why I’ll go speak to Riddick now.”  Discomfited, I disentangle myself and step back.  Patting the hover sled, I say, “And I’ll leave you with today’s planting.”

Thaniel smiles ruefully.  “Did I just say I’d listen to you?”

“Yes, you did.”  I laugh, and it is with laughter that we part.

 

My laughter dies as I make my way through the halls of Zibon to the mess hall, where I hope to find the Beast.  So he vented his rage after all, and on the least likely of targets.  What does he hope to accomplish, wounding Thaniel?  Why try to drive a wedge between me and the person who has been the most supportive of that which matters most to me?  And why has he ordered Thaniel not to touch me?  My pregnancy has not made me so fragile that I must be protected like a piece of precious crystal.  Nor has the Beast any reason to discourage intimacy between me and Thaniel, no matter that awkward moment in the lab.  Unlike the Beast, I am devoted to one person for eternity.

My steps quickened by irritation, I make my way towards the dining hall.  Furya’s sun is rising now, filling the corridors with golden light.  As I turn a corner, the sunlight explodes into brilliant colours against the wall, and I pause for a moment to admire someone’s handiwork.

A vivid panorama spills across the wall.  The lush green of Furya’s foliage predominates, but spots of color peep out amongst the green.  White and blue; the birds that I have seen so often in the fields.  A sinuous line of pale green; the waters of the Anzoa.  A dark brown strip that after a moment I realize is a row of furrows.  Paler brown curves are people bent over, hoeing.  Someone is painting my garden on the walls of Zibon.

Bemused, I stare at the painting, admiring the play of colors.  The picture is abstract, but when I look at it closely, the individual elements are immediately recognizable.  It reminds me of something, but I cannot think of what.  Nor can I imagine any of the Necromongers who accompanied us decorating a public place with such bright colors.  The contrast with the somber décor of the Basilica is almost painful.

Tapping my finger to my lips, I continue on my way.

 

When I reach the dining hall, I find it crowded.  The Beast and his commanders are easy to spot, though.  They stand clustered around the table where we usually sit.  Large, powerful men, all dressed in black.  They are still very much Necromonger commanders, and I wonder again whether the Furyans will ever be able to see us as anything but invaders.

The Beast turns as I cross the room, and I falter as I look at him. Deep furrows underscore his eyes.  His cheekbones stand out in high relief under his drawn skin.  He is paler than usual, despite having spent the last several days under Furya’s hot sun.  The muscles of his shoulders and arms bulge, betraying his tension.  My irritation with him drains away in a cold rush, replaced by concern.

 _Oh, my love_.

He grimaces, hearing my thought and feeling my concern.  I expect him to come to me, reassure me.  Instead he turns back to his commanders.  Hiding his pain, as he did when he first came to me.  His evident exhaustion, his tension, his withdrawal remind me so much of our first days together that my chest creaks with sympathy.

I approach him cautiously.  Remembering what he was like in those first days makes me careful, and I wait quietly beside him while he finishes speaking with Vaako.

“I told you, two skimmers.”

Vaako looks bewildered.  “One skimmer can easily hold all of us.”

“I said two.  I want two.  Get it done.”

Vaako bows his head.  “Yes, my Lord.”

Vaako’s deference makes the Beast’s mouth tighten into a white line.  Seeing his curtness with his commanders, so different from their relaxed banter of the past few days, worries me all the more.

“Riddick,” I say softly.  “Wouldn’t you like something to eat before we go?”

He rounds on me, the muscles of his neck bunching.  Then, with a visible effort, he forces himself to relax.  “You comin’?”

“Of course.  I value my hair too much to risk objecting.”  He does not smile as I had hoped, but his face lightens a little.  “Come, have something to eat.”

“Yeah.”  He blows out a breath through his nose.  “Okay.”

His words break the group apart, and while Vaako, still looking bewildered, heads toward the dining hall doors, the rest seat themselves around the table.  I glance up and down the table’s length, expecting some of the Furyans to have joined us.  They tend to eat early.  But I see only the small circle of Riddick’s commanders and their companions.  Tirea and Sanjula sit across from me in their light gowns.  I smile at them.

“I’m so much more comfortable, Tirea.  Thank you.”

She blushes becomingly.  “You’re welcome.  You look beautiful.  I told you pink would suit you.”

From beside me the Beast grunts, “Yeah, it does.”

I stroke my hand down his arm, to thank him for the compliment, and to see if the terrible strain lingers.  His muscles are like iron under my fingers.

“May I offer you some tea?” I ask, picking up the Tray of Leaves from its accustomed place near my plate.

“You got somethin’ new there?”

I nod and lift a silver bowl of belk leaves and dried calendula flowers for him to scent.  It is a new mixture, but one I think will suit him, and calendula is a soothing herb.  He sniffs appreciatively, then pokes the leaves with his pinky finger.  “You tryin’ to poison me?”

He’s referring to the belk leaves.  I didn’t realize he knew anything about Furya’s native flora.  “The toxin is concentrated in the roots and seeds.  I tested the leaves.  They’re safe, although very bitter when they’re raw.”  My mouth puckers at the memory.

The Beast’s smile almost reaches his eyes.  “Yeah, okay.”

I bow my head and begin preparing a cup of tea for him.  A glance from under my bangs shows that those around us are engaged in their food or private conversations.  That gives me leave to whisper to the Beast, “Did you sleep badly, my love?”

He shrugs.  That is answer enough.

“We need not leave for the beach so early.  No one would object if you wanted to rest before we go.”

He shakes his head.  “I want to get away.”

That is so unlike him that my hand falters on the whisk.  He never runs from anything; it is not in his nature.  I tighten my fingers and focus, on both the task at hand and on the Beast’s revelation.  “Is something wrong?”

“Nothin’ new.”  He lifts one huge shoulder defensively.

My heart constricts.  Has he been so unhappy for so long that his misery is ‘nothing new’?  No, I cannot believe that.  What I told Aereon was true.  He was happy when we were traveling together, and even the first few days on Furya.  It is only since the establishment of Zibon that he has become so grim.

I finish preparing the cup of tea and wait until the flowers settle to the bottom before I hand the crystal cup to him.  The Beast takes it slowly, peers into the pale yellow liquid and smiles a little at my arrangement.  He leans toward me and murmurs, “You still take care of me, Liaden.”

I wish we were alone, so I could wrap him tight in my embrace, shower kisses over his tight features until he relaxes.  But we are not alone, so I merely reply, “Of course I do.  I always will.”

The Beast looks up suddenly, and the muscles of his neck knot so tightly they strain against his skin.  I see nothing to cause his concern, until Shirah and her Guardian enter the dining hall.

I put my hand on the Beast’s thigh, under the edge of the table, so that none need see, but so that he knows I am with him.  He shakes his head slightly and continues to stare at the Furyans.

I remove my unwanted touch and wait to see what unfolds.  But Shirah does not make her way to our table.  She moves slowly to another table, on her own, and sits down unsteadily, gripping the edge of the table.  She looks exhausted, like the Beast.  What is the cause of their mutual unrest?  Does some Furyan illness infect them both?

 Beside me, the Beast relaxes a little, settling back into his chair.  After a moment he says, “How ‘bout some of those sausages?”

I shake myself mentally, turn my attention from Shirah and serve him.  Chef has prepared two kinds of sausages this morning.  His spicy, blood sausage that I have enjoyed for years, and a new, paler sausage.  As I arrange the two types of sausages into a star-burst on the Beast’s plate and garnish the center with deep red rowela slices and a dollop of cream to offset the sausages’ spiciness, the Beast says, “I think that’s creeper meat.  We’ve caught a bunch of them on the beach.  Probably see some today, too.  They’re slow-moving, but they’ve got a nasty bite.  They like to hide in the rocks, so be careful where you put your hands.”

“Thank you, I will.”  I cut a slice of the tea bread I know the Beast favors, spread it with rosy jam, and place it on a side plate.  He does not like to mix savory and sweet.

 “Liaden.”  He blows out a breath after my name.  Exhaustion?  Irritation?  Frustration?  I do not know what emotion tinges that breath, and he keeps his mind tightly shuttered so that I cannot sense it, but it is not a happy one.  I bow my head.  I have served him perfectly.  Why is he angry with me?

He blows out another breath.  “I just want one day.  One.  Day.  That too much to ask?”

“No, my love.”  I push everything else to the back of my mind.  Everything he must have seen.  My concern for him.  My irritation over what he has said to Thaniel.  My fears for the future and the threat Shirah represents.  I shove it as deep as my memories of Zhylaw and resolve to leave it there until the Beast smiles again.  “We will leave everything here, and just enjoy ourselves.  You deserve that more than anyone.”

He tilts his head slightly.  “Yeah?  Why’s that?”

“I cannot say.”  I give him a wry smile.  “We have left those reasons behind us, so that we can enjoy the day.  And that starts by enjoying your sausages before they go cold.  Would you like me to feed you?”

He sits back in his chair.  “Yeah.”

I smile to myself.  Nothing other than my sexual attentions makes him feel as cared for as having me feed him.  It is an intensely intimate act, made all the more so for being unprecedented in his lonely existence.  I cut a bite of spicy sausage, touch it to the cream and offer the morsel to him.  With a deep sigh, he opens his mouth for the bite.  His warm hand slides over my bare shoulder.  His fingers feather over my skin until he reaches the nape of my neck.  He cups his hand there, and strokes the metal ridge of my Collar with this thumb.

“I like this new style.  Could go even shorter.”

“That would be scandalous.  More so if there is a strong breeze outside.”

He chuckles.  “Pretty windy out there today.  A stroll along the beach could be all kinds of interestin’.”

I shake my head at him, but my heart lifts at his chuckle.

 

Having seen only Shirah and her Guardian at breakfast, I am surprised when Cawl joins us as we board the skimmers.  A glance at the Beast, speaking to Sanjula as she straps herself in to the skimmer’s navigational harness, shows him aware of the Furyan but unconcerned.  So he invited Cawl.  I smile at the Furyan, and make room for him on the bench where I sit, awaiting the Beast.  Cawl glances at me, his dark brown eyes track to the bench behind me for a moment, and then he moves to sit beside me.

I glance back, and find Avalyn sitting alone on the bench behind me, looking downcast.

“Avvy, come sit with us.  Our Furyan guest won’t want to hear about my garden and you know that’s all I talk about these days.”

She looks up.  Gratitude fills her eyes and she quickly moves up to my bench to sit on Cawl’s other side.

“I, uh, I don’t mind hearing about your plants, girl,” Cawl says.  But his eyes are already on Avalyn.

I smile and pretend to pay attention to the instructions the Beast is giving to Sanjula.  After a brief, awkward moment, Avalyn and Cawl begin to talk to each other, as I’d intended.  Avalyn touches a long oval of metal that Cawl wears on a thong around his neck.  He begins telling her the meaning of the talisman.  Her fingers linger on his chest, and he touches her hand tentatively.

The Beast joins me on the bench.  He slants a glance at the two sitting on my far side.

“Huh,” he says to me, _sotto voce_.

I lift a speculative eyebrow but say nothing.  If Cawl’s hearing is as good as the Beast’s, he will be able to hear even a whispered response, and I would not embarrass him into having to feign disinterest in Avalyn.

A bright, grating voice behind me makes me start.  “Good morning, my Lord!”  Nadie says.

She settles on the bench that Avalyn has recently vacated.  I see that she, too, has paid a visit to Tirea’s workshop.  She wears a short, gossamer gown in red and gold, patterned to look like flames.  Where the gowns Tirea, Sanjula and I wear fall loose from the gathered bust, Nadie’s gown is so fitted it could be painted on.  She wears matching red boots that rise above her knees, but there is still a considerable expanse of pale skin exposed between the tops of her boots and the bottom of her skirt.

“Shorter, you said?”  I murmur.

“Not that short.”  The Beast turns his back on Nadie and takes my hand.  “Look out to the east as we lift off.  Vaako an’ I got the rest of the shock wall up this morning.  Should be able to see it.” 

At his words, the ship’s thrusters rumble and we rise in a billow of ash.  I am grateful for the distraction; Nadie is making disgruntled huffs behind me and I worry about how the Beast will respond if she makes a scene.  To satisfy the Beast, and to provide me with a clear excuse for ignoring Nadie, I crane my neck to gaze out of the ship’s starboard lens as we rise above the edge of the cliff.  Beyond the blue-green ripple of the Anzoa, I see a curtain of light, silver as the Beast’s eyes, now hidden behind his black goggles.

“Is that it?”

“Yeah.  Runs all the way along that side of the river to where it forks.  You know where that is?”

I nod.  I know exactly where the fork is, because that is the terminus of the garden that Thaniel and I have laid out.  I do not have to ask the Beast if he was aware of that.  I lift his hand to my mouth and press a kiss against his knuckles.   “Thank you, Riddick.”

He caresses my chin with his thumb, and I ignore the niggle of suspicion that his caress is for Nadie’s benefit rather than mine.  “’Long as you stay inside the river forks, you should be safe.  Not much is gettin’ through that.”

I smile warmly at him, and decide not to tell him about the colony of poisonous lizards Thaniel and I have discovered along the banks of the Anzoa, well within the shock wall.  The lizards are venomous, but innocuous.  Even the closest incursion to their colony by the legionnaires provoked no more than a blinking, unhurried retreat.  Certainly nothing like the threat the aggressive Antyons present.

 The ship banks gently and pale dunes open beneath us.  Beyond the dunes, Furya’s green ocean ripples to the horizon.  Small islands dot the rolling green.  I have not been able to see the islands from the Habitable, obscured as they are by the rise of the dunes.

“Have you been out to those islands?” I ask, to make conversation and because I am curious as to what the islands hold.

“Yeah, they’re the edge of a swamp.  Here, you’ll be able to see it as we come around.”  He lifts his chin to the port lens and when I follow his gesture, I see a broad, silty brown estuary, where the Anzoa’s western branch drains into the sea.  Trees stand tall above the brown water, pale roots lifting the branching crowns so high above the water they look like ladies holding up their skirts.

I share that thought with the Beast and he chuckles.  “’Up Skirts Swamp,’ huh?  Maybe that’s what we should call it.  I’ve been calling it ‘Spotwood Swamp,’ ‘cause from a distance the tree bark looks spotty.  Up close, they’re covered with these little snails.”  He circles his first finger against his thumb to illustrate the snails’ diminuative size.  “Their shells are pretty.  I’ll get some for you.”

I would lay my head on his shoulder, to show him my gratitude, but he did not want my touch earlier, and I am constrained by the huffy noises the woman sitting behind us is still making.  I smile at him instead.

He shifts closer to me.  “Wouldn’t mind that.”

He has taken the thought from my mind.  His is still carefully closed to me.

I rest my head on his shoulder and watch the view as the swamp gives way to a long shingle beach that ends in a jumble of dark boulders.  As we round the headland, the boulders take on more regular shape, aligning in neat columns stacked one against another, so perfect they look as if a master mason had carved them from the cliff-face.  I make a soft sigh of delight and the Beast curves his arm around me.

“I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“It’s a lava flow.  See the cliff?”

I lift my eyes from the ordered columns to the high cliff behind them.  The same cliff that, many kilometers behind us now, houses the Habitable.  Here the cliff face looks melted, ribbons of black rock carving through the limestone.  The cliff is topped with masses of waving greenery.  A jungle born from the rich, volcanic soil.

The stacks disassemble at the far end of the field.  The tumbled boulders here look haphazard and rough in comparison to the neat stacks, and I can see many small pools amongst the boulders.  The tide pools shimmer with color and movement.  Purple, yellow, orange, deep red.  I point out a particularly vibrant pool to the Beast.

“Lotsa shit in those pools.  There’s a funny kinda plant.  Bright yellow.  Looks like fingers.”  He holds up his hand, fingers cupped in a loose U.  “Crunches up when you touch it.”

“Interesting.”  My overwhelming concern reasserts itself.  “Is it edible?”

The Beast chuckles.  “Dunnow.  I brought some buckets, though, so we can take some back with us for testing.”

I do not remember anything in the Furyan Colony archives about edible sea-plants, but the island that the Beast has chosen for our settlement was the least populated by the Furyans, and the settlements were all on the south-western coast, where fresh water was more abundant.  Perhaps the fingerling plants only grow here in the north.

“There it is,” the Beast murmurs, and I glance out the lens again to see that the boulders have flattened out into a long crescent of black sand.  The green waves foam white where they lap at the beach.  Twenty meters from the water, Furya’s ever-present jungle begins, framing the black sand, rising in the distance to the limestone cliff that forms the backbone of the headland.

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, an’ safe, long as you don’t go stickin’ your hands in between the rocks.  Lowies don’t seem to like these black sand beaches.  We don’t know why.  Stay with a group if you go in the water, though.”

I look at the green swells and shiver.  I have no interest in going in.

The Beast plucks that thought from my mind, too.  “I’da figured you for a swimmer.  Thought your mother was teachin’ you how to hunt.  What, meat on Tarenge don’t go in the water?”

I shrug.  Prey probably did.  But not on our land.  There was very little surface water on my clan’s settlement, just a few shallow streams and the underwater springs from which we drew our water.  There was no deep water for my mother to teach me how to swim, even if she had wanted to.

The Beast chuckles.  “Walkin’ on the beach’s just as good.”

“I am content to watch.”  From a safe distance.

“I’m not much of a swimmer, either.”

That I doubt.  The Beast does everything well.  He gives a soft grumble at that thought and squeezes my hip.

The skimmer circles over the beach several times, while Sanjula decides where to land.  She finally settles the craft near the jungle, back from the beach, and I wonder if that is for aesthetic reasons, or because she still fears what might be under the sand.

Once the skimmer is down, the Beast rises off the flight bench and joins Daray in helping Sanjula out of the navigational harness.  I remain seated for a moment, looking out at the beach.  Admiring the smooth black sand and the rippling green beyond.

I also have to admire the determination, if not the acumen, of the woman who rises from behind me, moves sinuously around the flight benches in her tight dress, and approaches the Beast.  She lays a hand on his arm and tries to speak with him.

The Beast brusquely takes her hand off his arm and places it on one of the straps supporting Sanjula.  “You want to help me?”

“Yes, my lord,” Nadie breathes.

“Start here.”  He moves away, back to the flight bench where I sit, and holds his hand out to me.  “You ready?”

I nod and take his hand.  He pulls me gently to my feet, wraps his arm around me and turns toward the ramp at the rear of the skimmer.  I could look over my shoulder at Nadie.  Grind the Beast’s preference for me into her.  But there is nothing to be gained by humiliating her.  I wait until we’re out of the craft, out of her sight, before I rest my head on the Beast’s shoulder. 


	11. Chapter 11

Out on the sand, we are joined by Vaako, who must have ridden alone in the second skimmer.  Vaako leads a hover sled stacked with scalecloth-wrapped bundles.  He and the Beast immediately begin discussing where to set up the sled’s contents, which I discern include a windbreak.

As they debate the merits of various locations, those who rode our skimmer emerge.  Sirel and Tirea, hand-in-hand, smiling into the bright sunlight.  Daray and Sanjula.  Nadie, looking disgruntled.  Zetany with Ctyren and the Bird.  And last, Cawl and Avalyn, still engrossed in each other.

Sirel and Daray join the debate over where to set up the windbreak.  I listen to their banter, amused, while I look up at the Beast’s face.  Even in the short time since we’ve left Zibon, he has changed.  The unhealthy pallor is gone; his skin gleams a deep, burnished gold in the sun.  The lines around his mouth have softened.  He’s no longer frowning, and as Daray makes a quip about the suitability of Vaako’s choice of location, he grins.  I wish I could see his eyes, his beautiful, expressive eyes, but they are hidden from Kreon’s glare behind his goggles.  I sense, though, that the smile has reached his eyes.

He looks down at me and nuzzles my temple.  “Stop worryin’ about me.  Just enjoy the day.”

“I would.”  I smile brilliantly up at him.  “If you mighty conquerors of worlds would pick a spot where I can sit down and get out of the wind.”

The Beast roars with laughter.  Since my quip wasn’t that funny, it must be relief from whatever oppresses him that amuses him so mightily.  He points to a spot near the boulders at the north end of the beach.  It is well back from the waterline and none of his commanders have favored places so far away from the water.  “Tide’s coming in.  We won’t be eatin’ lunch waist-deep in water there.  C’mon.”

He brooks no argument and begins walking down the sand to the place he has selected.  The sand crunches and shifts underfoot, but is pleasantly firm.  I begin to relish the idea of a long walk on the beach.

“Me, too,” he murmurs.  Glancing up into his face, I find him looking down at me.  Smiling.

I am so delighted to see him smile that I grin back at him, pouring my heart into my expression.  The Beast’s mouth purses and I know that if I could see his eyes, they would have kindled.

“After that walk, we might find a place to be alone, you an’ me.  Tonight’s a long time off.  ‘Specially with your dress blowin’ around like that.”

His renewed desire lights me up inside, so much my happiness spills out of me and I see the blue flame of my Collar glimmer in his goggles.

He reaches up, puts his heavy hand on my head where I rest it against his shoulder, and kisses the top of my head.  Entwined, we cross the black sands.

When we reach the spot he has selected, he and Vaako unpack the sled and begin to assemble the windbreak.  After watching for a moment, Sirel, Daray and even Cawl join in.  Amongst much good-natured joking about each other’s lack of mechanical skills, the first section of the windbreak is finally secured in the sand.

“Liaden, could you hold this while I set up these chairs?”  Tirea’s request distracts me from the windbreak’s progress.  I take the bundle of cloth she holds out, and when I see what she’s doing, stretch the scalecloth slings over each metal tripod she sets up on the sand.  Sanjula enlists Avalyn and Zetty to help her snapping together small tables that they sink into the sand beside each chair.  Only Nadie eschews our efforts and drifts away towards the water’s edge.

“Probably can’t bend over in that dress,” Zetany says to Avalyn once Nadie is out of earshot.

Avalyn lifts her head in a pretense of surprise.  “Is that a dress?  I thought it was scarf she’d tied around her ti—”

“Enough.”  I warn the two of them.

“Neck,” Avalyn finishes, with a mutinous glare.

“She’s no longer any of your concern, Avvy,” I remind her.

“Being on the same planet with her concerns me.”

I glance at the Beast to see if this interchange has irritated him.  Before we left the Armada, he insisted that I keep the peace between my fellow concubines.  Now, he seems unconcerned, although I have no doubt that he has heard.  From the grin on Cawl’s face, the Furyan has heard as well.

“Ignore her,” I counsel Avalyn, then repeat the Beast’s mantra.  “Just enjoy the day.”

“Absolutely,” Tirea says.  She seats herself in a sling as I cover the last tripod with scalecloth and unlaces her sandals.  “Anybody else want to get their feet wet?”

The other women quickly sit and begin divesting themselves of their footwear.  Sanjula wears sandals like Tirea’s and I wonder how soon I might ask the Weaver to make me a pair without further imposing on her.

I bend over to unlace my boots, but discover that the sling is too deep and my belly is too big to allow such motion.  Nazya usually helps me with my shoes.  I sit back in the sling, gaze at Tirea’s bare toes enviously, and resign myself to a day of hot, dry feet.

A shadow falls over me and I glance up, assuming the men have assembled the rest of the windbreak.  A second section is up, but it looks like there’s more to do before the stiffened scalecloth will provide much shelter from wind and sun.  What falls across me is the Beast’s shadow.  He kneels before me, and begins unlacing my boots.

“Oh, no,” I say, horrified.  We don’t observe the strict protocols of Lord Marshal and Concubine anymore, even in public.  But I would never have anyone see him serve _me_.

“Can’t enjoy the day in these.”  He draws off one boot and starts on the other.  His fingertips tickle along my calf as he unlaces my second boot.  He circles a finger over my bare knee and I shiver with delight.  “’Sides, if you take off yours, I can take off mine.”

I have no doubt he is talking about articles other than our boots.  “I look forward to that very much,” I murmur.

He grins and tosses my boots under the tripod on which I sit.  Unlacing his own boots, he pushes them off and shoves them under the tripod with mine.  His tunic follows.  Then he stands, stretches like a great, golden cat and flexes his huge feet in the sand.  I follow suit, feeling the crumbly-soft grains crunch pleasantly between my toes.

He reaches into the hover sled, pulls out a bucket and holds his free hand out to me.  “C’mon.  Vaako’s got the windbreak under control.”

I join him readily, sliding onto his arm.  He whistles for Ctyren, who bounds over the sand.  The Bird clings to the lupinarus’s back for dear life, flapping its bandaged wings at the pup’s precipitous motion.

“You know we’re never gonna get rid of that thing, don’t you?”  The Beast says, tipping his chin at the Bird.

“Once its wings heal and I teach it how to feed itself, I’ll release it back into the wild.  I promise.”

The Beast snorts.  “Better take it to the other side of the planet, then.  An’ hope it’s not a homing pigeon--”

 He’s interrupted by a call from the water’s edge.  Glancing up, I see that Nadie has decided to divest herself of more than her boots.  Naked, her pale skin gleaming in the sun, up to her ankles in the white foam, she waves to the Beast.

“It’s warm, my Lord.  Won’t you come in?”

“Maybe later,” he calls back.  “You go on in.”  To me he says, “Maybe somethin’ll eat her.”

“One can hope,” I murmur.

“Skinny dipping, Nadie?”  Avalyn calls snidely from behind us.

“Actually, that sounds like a really good idea,” Tirea says.  She quickly strips off her gown.  Still modestly covered by a chemise, she runs down the beach, splashing into the water not far from Nadie, who cringes away from the spray.

“Now that’s more like it!”  Sirel and Daray streak past, shedding bits of their uniforms as they race down the beach.  With a backwards glance at the Beast, Vaako follows at a more dignified pace.  And leaves his pants on.

The Beast nods at his commander, and at Zetany when she comes up beside us and gives the Beast a beseeching look.  Her relief when he nods, and when she takes off her heavy court gown, is palpable.

Avalyn does not seek the Beast’s approval.  But she does linger next to the chairs, looking at Cawl.  Then slowly and quite deliberately, she peels off her green gown.  In the concubine tradition, she wears nothing underneath.

Seemingly riveted, Cawl says gruffly, “Didn’t bring a swimsuit.”

Avalyn smiles, a mischievous, knowing smile that I have never seen her wear before.  “You brought your skin, right?”

Avalyn’s own skin glows in the sunlight and I realize how wrong I was to ever think her plain.  In just her skin, with her fine dark hair blowing around her and her eyes sparkling, she is beautiful.

She tosses Cawl an unmistakable glance over her shoulder and runs down the black sand into the water.

“Well,” the Furyan says gruffly.  “Guess I got my skin.”

He disrobes hesitantly, with obvious embarrassment.  The Beast turns away to give him some privacy and I follow suit.  After a long moment, I hear him shuffling his feet in the sand, and I note out of the corner of my eye that he has nothing to be embarrassed about.  Finally, he grunts, “I’m too old for her,” and stalks down the beach.

“I don’t think Avalyn thinks so,” I observe to the Beast.

He chuckles.  “Me, neither.”

With a last glance at the swimmers, who are now venturing deeper into the water amidst much splashing and laughter, he leads me down the beach.  He strokes my head onto his shoulder as we walk.

“Truly,” I say.  “I would not mind watching if you care to join them.”

“Told you, I’m not much of a swimmer.”

I smile up at him, because I know this is a lie.  But it is a lie for the sake of my pride, and there is no kinder sort of lie.

“Do you mind, about Avalyn and Cawl?”

“Nope.”  He tightens his arm around me.  “Long as that’s what she wants.”

“She certainly seems to.  And I can attest to the allure of Furyan men.”

He chuckles.  “Good thing there’s lots of us to go around now.”

Perhaps that is how our peoples may be brought together.  Through the affection of individuals, rather than the forced integration of our races.  I share that thought with the Beast aloud.

“Could be.”  He does not elaborate, and because I have no wish to remind him of Shirah or any of his other concerns today, I leave that line of thought behind and focus instead on our surroundings.  The hot, red-gold sunlight.  The steady swush of the waves and the soft crunch of sand underfoot.  The beach is strewn with small rocks and broken shells.  Ctyren approaches each as a fresh adventure.  The Beast brushes the pup aside to examine particularly attractive shells, and drops a few into the bucket he carries.

We’re perhaps half a kilometer down the beach when the Beast stops suddenly.

“What is it?” I ask.

He tips his chin at the water, and, following his goggled gaze, I see a tumult in the waves that has nothing to do with the running tide.

The waves smooth, and then, a little further up the shore, the erratic undulation of the water begins again.

The Beast turns suddenly, cups his hands to his mouth and roars, “Get out!”

The heads and shoulders of our friends continue to bob amongst the waves, oblivious to whatever it is the Beast fears.

“Riddick, they can’t hear you,” I say urgently.

The Beast watches tensely for a moment, poised, ready to sprint down the sand.  Then he shakes his head.  “They’ve seen it.”

As I watch, my breath still shortened by fear, Vaako and Cawl herd the swimmers up out of the waves.

“What is it?”

“Watch.”

I do, and the water’s agitation grows violent, until tiny winged shapes leap out of the waves.  Light catches in their wings, prisms, until they are leaping in a sea of rainbows.

Lost in the beauty of the sight, I sigh.

“Not them,” the Beast murmurs.  “What’s drivin’ ‘em.”

Out of the calm waters on either side of the flashing frenzy, huge black shapes rise.  A tall fin breaks the water first, and then a monstrous sloped back that tapers into wings wider than the Beast’s two meters.  The black shapes seem to float above the water on the tips of their wings, lashing the surface with long, sickle-shaped tails to keep themselves above the waves.  Snouts hidden beneath the span of their wings gape redly, flashing rows of fangs as long as my hand in the sunlight.  They gulp great mouthfuls of the flying fish before sinking back below the waves.  The water calms and only a dark stain on the waves marks the spot where the slaughter occurred.

“What are they?” I gasp.

“Furyans call them yrothi.  They hunt off our beach, too.  Haven’t seen them do that before, though.”

“Could they eat a person?”

“Let’s not find out.”

I expect him to turn back, rejoin those making their way back up the sand to the windbreak.  But he turns his back on them and continues walking down the beach.

“They can wait,” he says in response to my unspoken thought.

Perhaps he misses the time we spent together, just the two of us, traveling to Furya, as keenly as I do.  I wrap both arms around his muscled waist.  “Have I told you today that I love you?”

He pretends to consider it seriously for a moment, his forehead and chin wrinkling with the effort.  “Mmm.”

I haven’t, because he left this morning without waking me, but for the sake of harmony, I stuff that thought to the bottom of my mind.  “Would you like to hear it again, just in case?”

“Have you ever said it before?”

Many, many times.  But I will say it again, as often as he wants to hear it, since I know that I am the only person who has ever said it to him, and it means much.  “I might have, but no matter.  I would not want to bore the Lord Marshal with such trivialities—“  I break off because the Beast has squeezed me so tight I cannot breathe.

“Say it,” he growls, stopping and looking down into my face.

I catch my breath and smile and look up into those fathomless black goggles, wishing I could see clearly into the fathomless mind behind them.  “I love you, Riddick.”

“Still?”

“Always.” 

It is a familiar and comforting ritual, his demand and my assurance, but today he alters it.  “No matter what?”

He demands further assurance, and I have no qualms about giving it.  “No matter what, my love.”

He sighs and hugs me tight.  My protruding belly presses against him and I feel the beginning of his body’s response to my declaration.  He surveys the beach, his head moving back and forth.  Then he sighs again, a higher, less content noise.  “There’s no fuckin’ privacy on this beach.  Shoulda picked one with more rocks.”

I laugh gently.  “There are the trees over there.”

“Bug’s’ll chew us up and spit us out before I’m half-way through.”

“Ah, the perils of love in the open air.”  I sidle away from him, towards the trees, swaying suggestively.

With a growl, he drops the bucket and starts after me.  Ctyren, thinking this is a game, gives chase.  Although I would like to make love with the Beast now, it would be rude to leave our friends and cruel to Nadie, so instead of making for the trees, I circle on the sand, running lightly, keeping just out of the Beast’s reach.  He makes no serious attempt to catch me, giving chase for the joy of running on the beautiful beach in the warm sun.  Ctyren bounds between us, barking madly.  The pup is more determined than the Beast and finally catches me.  I give in gracefully when he leaps up on me and fall to the sand, careful of my belly.  When the pup wriggles over me, I let him lick my face until he is satisfied with his victory.  “You are a mighty hunter, Ctyren,” I praise him while trying to keep lupinarus saliva out of my eyes.  I know from experience that it stings.

The Beast settles on the sand beside me and when he tires of waiting, pushes the pup off me with a stern, “Sit.”

Ctyren, already well trained, immediately sits and my poor bird, still clinging to the pup’s back, begins pecking at the lupinarus’s brow ridge in admonishment.  The animals’ interplay draws chuckles out of me and the Beast. 

He stretches his arm out for me and I lie back against him.  Leaning over, he kisses me.  Soft, gentle kisses, without any heat.  I return them the same way.  There will be time for heat later.  For now, I will simply enjoy the day with him.

He rumbles deep in his chest, a pleased grumble.  He lifts his head, repositions me so that I am tucked into the curve of his shoulder and chest, and strokes my belly with his free hand.  “Really like this new style,” he says, and I sense that if I could see his eyes, they would be warm and appreciative.

“I’m glad.”  I still feel a little like an exploding lily, but less so when he looks at me this way.

“An exploding lily, huh?”  He grins.  “Lemme see.”

I draw forth a memory of the nerithra lilies in the Feleti gardens on Tarenge.

“You don’t look anythin’ like that.”  He pauses, considering.  “You don’t grow those.”

He’s right, but I did not expect him to know.  That he does makes me realize that he has paid closer attention to my gardens than I thought.  “They make me sneeze.”

“Yeah?  Lotsa your flowers make me itchy.  I didn’t think they bothered you.”

“My garden makes you itchy?!”  I wail.  I had no notion he was allergic.  He’s never said anything.  Never sneezed or itched in my presence.  Never thought about his discomfort when his mind was open to me.

He chuckles.  “I don’t mind, Liaden.”

“No, you must tell me which ones irritate you and I’ll take them out.  Riddick, you’ve spent _days_ in my garden.  Why didn’t you say anything?!”

He kisses me, flicks my nose with his finger.  “’Cause I know you like them.  ‘Specially those bouffy ones.”

“My Caprunes?!”

“They don’t make me itch.  An’ I like the way they smell.  But don’t tell Vaako.  He’s already worried I’m gonna let you stick flowers in every corner.”

I glance up the beach, to where Vaako and the others have returned to their struggle with the windbreak.  Four sections are up now and it is beginning to provide some shelter.  Tirea, Sanjula and Zetty work within its shade, assembling a larger table, while Nadie walks along the shoreline disconsolately.  Avalyn and Cawl are nowhere to be seen.

When I point this out to the Beast, he grins.  “They’d better go back to the skimmer.  Otherwise, they’re gonna have bites in interesting places.  Bugs in those trees really are vicious motherfuckers.”

I giggle.  “What a terrible distraction.”

“Particularly the first time.  Cawl’s been alone longer than I was.   He’s gonna want to go slow, savor every minute.”

I stroke his cheek.  “As you did?”

He leans into me, pressing his chest against my breasts, sliding his thigh between mine.  “Still do.  Every time.  Even when you make it hard to wait.”

“Do I?” I ask, mischievously, knowing how he reacts to teasing.

He growls, a heated, sexual growl.  “Like right now.”

“You need not wait.  I am yours, to take whenever you wish.  I will even endure the bugs for you,” I say, teasing him a little more, for I know he will wait.  He will want to savor it, and that means waiting until we are alone, and somewhere bug-free.

“You know me too well,” he growls.  “I’m gonna make you pay for this.”  He flexes his hips, so I can feel his growing hardness against my thigh.

I trace my fingers over the bulge of his shoulder, gleaming in the sun, pressing lightly with my fingernails because he likes it when I scratch.  “Oh, how?”

He reaches up and pulls off his goggles.  Closing his eyes against the glare, he buries his face in my hair, nips along the edge of my ear as he whispers to me, “I’m gonna bite you here.”  He slides his hand between my thighs, a quick press against my mons, and then away.  “And everywhere else I can reach.  I’m gonna hold you on the brink until you beg.”

I shudder, with the ferocious heat he raises in me with so few words and such a brief touch, and with unbearable anticipation, because I know he can do exactly what he promises.  Maybe there is time for this now, as well as tonight.  “Shall I beg you on my knees?” I whisper, knowing that I am playing with fire.  His control is astonishing, but not indomitable, as I once believed.  Strong emotion, and certain techniques I have learned during our time together, can breach his iron restraint.

He groans against my cheek.  “Under me.”  He draws back and I can see the strain on his face.

I caress his cheek.  I will not leave him in such consternation.  “My love, let me relieve you now.  No one will see.”  If he stays leaning over me, his body will shield our activities from the others.  Although he has never let me relieve him with my hand, I have studied the Concubines’ histories.  I know what to do.

He sucks his lower lip into his mouth.  He glances back over his shoulder at the others, then shakes his head.  “I can wait.”  He reaches for his goggles and fits them back over his eyes.  A delicate gesture, that reminds me of the way he handles my body.  He brushes a soft kiss over my mouth.  “You make it hard, though, Liaden.  Very, very hard.”

He rubs himself against me for emphasis.  I grin up at him; he is extremely hard.  But he will wait, as he’s said.  Once he makes up his mind, there is no moving him.  Which leaves me free to tease him, gently.  “I could make it harder.  Shall I follow Nadie’s example?”

He growls, both desire and warning lacing the low noise.  “Don’t even think about it.  No one else sees what’s mine.”

No one else touches what’s his, either, if his command to Thaniel is any indication, but I banish that thought immediately, before it destroys the moment.  “You said I could go shorter.”

“I was wrong.  From now on you wear an atmosphere suit.  Head to toe.  All the time.  Except when you’re with me.  Then you go naked.”

I laugh, at his possessiveness and at the improbability of his dictate.  “And you?”  I trace the line of his shoulder.  “Will you cover your handsome chest when we are with others?”  Unlikely, since he won’t even wear sleeves.

“No one’s lookin’ at my chest.”

“Nadie would disagree.”

He glances over his shoulder.  Grunts.  I cannot see Nadie without moving, and I have no desire to move, but I have no doubt she is still displaying herself.  “I asked her to come along,” he says.

Because leaving her at Zibon would mean leaving her defenseless to Greer’s advances.  Because I asked him to protect her.  “What did she say when you spoke to her about Greer?”

He grunts again.  “Just a misunderstanding.”

“If he’d strangled her, would that have been a misunderstanding?”  I shake my head against the Beast’s arm.  “She’s a fool.”

“Won’t argue with you there.”  His mouth tightens.  “I could smell her fear.”

“Why wouldn’t she admit he hurt her?”

“No idea.  She tried to give me her vow again.”

I roll my eyes.  “She is persistent.”

“I set her straight on that.”

“You did?”  Curiosity nips me.  “What did you say?”

“That she was wastin’ her time.  Only one woman for me.”

“You said that?”  My heart swells.

“’Course I did.  You think I want her comin’ on to me all the time?  Could be me up against the wall next time.”

The improbable image sets me laughing.  “We cannot have you ravished by your own concubine.  What would the legionnaires think?”

He chuckles, then kisses the tip of my nose.  “You know I meant it, right?  Everything else that’s goin’ on.”  He glances away and his mouth tightens.

“We’ve left all that behind, my love.”  I stroke his cheek, to draw him back to me and help him forget that which would destroy this moment.  “To enjoy the day.”

He smiles down at me.  “Yeah, we did.  She didn’t pay one fuckin’ bit of attention, did she?”

The disgust in his voice renews my laughter.  “The irresistible force meets the immovable object.”

“Yeah.”  He brushes a soft kiss over my mouth, then begins to rise.  “C’mon, I want a look at those rock pools before we go back for lunch.”

I rise with him, twine myself around him when he holds out his arm to me.  “I’m sorry I didn’t bring a test kit.  We could have had _fruits de la Mer_ for lunch.”

“Could test ‘em on Nadie,” he suggests.

Laughing, we continue down the beach.

Despite his suggestion, we do not offer the samples of brightly colored aquatic plants we collect out of the rock pools to Nadie.  And for her part, by the time we return to the windbreak, she is clothed again.  The Beast studiously ignores her as he sets the bucket in the hover sled and collects a scalecloth-wrapped bundle out of it.

Observing him, Sanjula remarks, “That doesn’t look like a spear.”

“Nope.  We’ll save fishin’ for sunset.  This is for after lunch.  Game I taught Liaden while we were travelin’.”

I grin.  Quadrangle.  A complex, three-dimensional strategy game.  We played it a great deal while we were traveling, until I finally began winning.  Then the game board disappeared and I haven’t seen it since.

My love doesn’t like to lose.

I join Tirea and Zetty in setting out a picnic lunch, so beautifully packed and prepared that it must be Chef’s personal handiwork.  As we’re sitting down to eat, Avalyn and Cawl return, fully dressed and without any visible bug-bites.  Avalyn’s cheeks and eyes are bright, but with excitement, rather than embarrassment and I intuit that she and Cawl have not consummated their flirtation.

The Beast leans over to me and whispers, “Don’t smell like they been doin’ anythin’ interesting.”

“Maybe they were engaged in deep philosophical discussion.”  I take a saurin fruit and begin peeling it, surprised to find that I am hungry.  Perhaps it’s the sea air.

“Or maybe they couldn’t find anywhere t’get naked.”

I smile before popping a saurin wedge into my mouth.  As I chew, I offer a slice to the Beast.  He opens his mouth, inviting me to feed him as I did this morning, which I do with relish.  I enjoy the intimacy of feeding him as much as he does.

After we eat, the Beast demonstrates Quadrangle.  Vaako, Daray and Zetty are eager to learn, while Sanjula takes out a bundle of brightly colored string and begins twisting the string into intricate knots while she watches over Daray’s shoulder.  Sirel and Tirea spread a square of scalecloth on the sand and lie down together, talking softly, until Tirea falls asleep, her blonde head cushioned on Sirel’s dark chest.  Cawl and Avalyn wander away, down the beach.  Watching them, I see that they walk in easy touching distance, but do not yet hold hands or touch each other as lovers would, and I wonder at their restraint.  Is it that they are shy in front of an audience, or that Cawl holds himself back?

Nadie seats herself on the Beast’s far side.  She picks up Quadrangle pieces and toys with them, as though she would play.  But she refuses to partner Vaako when the Beast suggests that we divide into three teams, as six individual players would make for a hopelessly confusing game.

“Partner her,” I say to the Beast.  “I have no objection.  I will partner Vaako and together, we will conquer all.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of,” the Beast grumbles.  But he gives in, to Nadie’s immense gratification.

I let Vaako make our first few moves, so I can gauge his style, strengths and weaknesses.  His moves are thoughtful, but shallow.  He is thinking a move, perhaps two, ahead.  The Beast has taught me to think through all moves, anticipate the entire game, and plan so that there is only one inevitable conclusion: victory.

When our turn comes around again, and Vaako seems inclined to move an important piece in a way that will allow its capture by the Beast in a handful of moves, I shake my head and direct him to another piece, whose movement will open up another tier of the board to us, and in four moves, allow us to capture an entire line of Daray and Zetty’s soldier pieces.

Vaako’s eyes widen after he makes the move, and I can tell that he is thinking through the next few moves, and has recognized the opportunity that has opened to us.  He lifts his gaze to me, tilts his head and smiles uncertainly.

“Riddick taught me well,” I say mildly, returning my gaze to the board.

Daray turns out to be surprisingly adept, evading the worst of the consequences of Vaako’s move and counterattacking effectively.  He presents a real challenge until the Beast offers us an alliance to knock him and Zetty out of the game.

“You can’t do that!” Zetty protests.

“All’s fair in love, war and Quadrangle, Zet,” the Beast chuckles.

After a quick, whispered conference, Vaako and I accept the Beast’s alliance.  But we require that he surrender two pieces that gravely threaten our chances of winning.

“One,” the Beast says, his mobile mouth twisting into a wry grin.

“Don’t give them anything!”  Nadie hisses.

“Shut up,” he says, without even glancing at her.  “No one asked you.”

Nadie slumps sulkily into her chair.  I would feel sorry for her, if she didn’t bring it on herself.

“One and you forfeit a move,” I counter.

“Done.  Kiss on it.”  That was how we always sealed our bargains while traveling.

“Very well.”  I smile at him teasingly.  “Vaako, Riddick requires a kiss.”

Vaako looks so affronted I might have slapped him.   The Beast chuckles and surrenders the piece without requiring a kiss from his commander.  Together, we hunt down Daray and Zetty’s key pieces.  I let the Beast take the last few, knowing that he can become immersed in the hunt to the detriment of his strategy.  I concentrate on getting my pieces into position so that when Daray and Zetty are gone, Vaako and I will control three of the tiers.

After only a few moves, the Beast realizes what I am doing.  “You’re not holdin’ up your end of the bargain, Liaden,” he murmurs.

“Am I not?” I ask innocently.

“Lord Marshal, we would never break faith—”  Vaako begins. 

I shake my head at him.  Ever the stalwart commander, he is uniquely unsuited to challenging the Beast in such a game.  “He’s trying to distract you, Vaako.  Watch his next move.”

The Beast chuckles, and moves aggressively, not after one of Daray and Zetty’s remaining pieces, but after a field marshal piece that I have moved to command the third tier.

“But—”  Vaako begins.

“All’s fair in love, war and Quadrangle,” I parrot.

A muscle works in Vaako’s jaw, but he moves to counter the Beast’s attack.  They battle back and forth over the tier, Vaako’s moves becoming as wholly focused, and as short-sighted, as his first moves in the game.  I use my moves to solidify our defenses on the two tiers we hold.  Nadie stops bothering to try to play and the Beast takes her moves while she sits back in her sling, her arms crossed over her chest and a pout creasing her pretty features.

Almost as an afterthought, the Beast takes out Daray and Zetty’s last piece.  Daray sits back with a sigh.  “Next time I’ll know better.  I should have bribed someone from the start.  I had no idea you were so duplicitous, Li.”

“I did,” Vaako mutters darkly.

I ignore him and smile sweetly at Daray.  “I am as Riddick has taught me to be.”

The Beast grins as he captures a line of our soldiers.

“I’m not sure which one of you is scarier,” Daray grumbles.

“Liaden,” the Beast says.  “She’s pullin’ her punches because we’re not alone, but you should see her one-on-one.  Sneakier than a fuckin’ Lowie.”

“You were the one who suggested that we play strip Quadrangle,” I reply.  Although I will admit that I was the one who suggested that we trade sexual favors when we ran out of clothes.  And although I did not win that game, I was the first one to an orgasm, so the Beast’s victory was phyrric at best.

“Don’t remind me,” the Beast mutters, and I wonder if desire still bites him.  I give him a slow, knowing smile in the hopes of distracting him.

But the Beast is rarely distracted, and the game holds his attention now.  He finally wins the tier from Vaako and begins testing my carefully-crafted defenses.  I take each forray he throws at me, and begin working up the tier decimated by his battle with Vaako to sneak around behind his attackers.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doin’, Liaden,” he grumbles.

“I, my lord?”  I ask, all feigned sweetness and innocence.  “I merely defend myself against your masterful assault.”

“We’ll see how hard you defend yourself later.”  He follows the verbal sparring with a relentless attack on three fronts: striking back against my raiding party on the third tier, hammering against the defenses on the two tiers I control.  I retreat carefully, one square at a time, luring him in, keeping him focused on his three-front assault, until he is spread so thin that he cannot stop me when I suddenly reverse my retreat on the embattled third tier and leap to the fourth to attack his stronghold.  His commander in chief piece will be within my grasp in less than a dozen moves.

He rubs his chin with his forefinger and thumb while I surround and capture a line of his soldiers.  “I never taught you that.”

“You taught me to innovate.  What think you of my innovation?”

“I think it’s a fuckin’ nightmare.  Forget I ever told you to innovate.  Stick with what you know.”

I laugh.  “You taught me to win.”

“Not by kickin’ my ass.”  After a lengthy survey of the board, he moves, shoring up his defenses on the fourth tier.  I press hard, knowing he will leave no opening if he is allowed respite, but his defenses are strong and the outcome of our battle is still uncertain.

Until I look up at Vaako’s face.  Something very like anguish creases his features as he watches me attack the Beast.  I sit back and regard him.  He shakes his head very slightly.

I take a sip of the cold, refreshingly acidic drink Chef has provided to accompany our picnic while I contemplate Vaako’s distress.  Does he truly fear the Beast’s displeasure if we win?  Or is it just that there is no room for anything but blind obedience in Vaako’s frame?

Whatever the reason, I sense that it will cause Vaako real pain if we triumph.  And so, in deference to my partner, my next move is defensive, and the one after that.  The Beast’s silver eyes lift from the board to me, and he frowns slightly.  But he presses the small advantage, and after a handful of moves, his victory is assured.

I capitulate after he takes the key defenders on my second tier.  There is no point in playing the game through to the end.  I place our commander in chief piece on a plate of sweetcakes and offer it to the Beast.  He takes a cake and flicks the piece over with his pinky finger.

“You need a rest before a rematch, Liaden?”

Remembering his exhaustion and in the hopes he will rest if I do, I ask, “Will you allow me some time to recover, my lord?”

“Yeah.  Might even join you.”  He gathers the game pieces and sets them back in their trays.

Vaako begins to help him and the Beast gives his commander a short nod.  “Good game.  Sure you never played before?”

“No, my lord.  But I would gladly play again.”

And lose again, if his expression was anything to go by.  But I refrain from commenting and busy myself with collecting a large square of scalecloth out of the hover sled.

I spread the scalecloth in the sand in the shade of the windbreak, close enough to Tirea and Sirel to be companionable, but far enough away to afford them – and us -- some measure of privacy.  I sink down on it and stretch out my legs.  Ctyren immediately flops down beside me and the Bird shuffles up the lupinarus’s spine ridge to perch on his crest.  I stroke the Bird’s downy, white feathers and let it peck at my fingertips while humming to it until its bright eyes begin to glaze.

The Beast stretches out on the scalecloth next to me.  He watches me pet the Bird for a few moments.  Then he makes a faint disgruntled noise.  I smile to myself.  He is greedy for my attention today.  Fortunately, I am more than happy to give it to him.

When I turn to him, he lies back and offers me his shoulder.  I cuddle down next to him.  The sun is warm on my skin.  The wind paints cool kisses over us, and keeps the sun’s heat from becoming unpleasant.  I nestle against the Beast and think of nothing but the contentment of the moment.

The Beast still has other things on his mind, however.  “Why’d you give in?” he asks, his voice just above a whisper.  “You coulda won.”

I crack open an eye, take in the Beast’s puzzled expression, and confirm that the others are out of earshot before I murmur, “Vaako.  Did you see his face when I threatened your commander?  He didn’t want to win.  Not against you.”

The Beast starts to snort, then falls silent and I can tell from the pregnant silence that he’s thinking.  “Just a game.”

“You men take games very seriously.”

“You’re an apex-fuckin’-predator when it comes to games, so don’t gimme that.”

I chuckle.  “As you’ve taught me.”

“I didn’t make you into anythin’ you weren’t already.”  I know he’s referring to far more than my Quadrangle prowess, but I do not rise to his bait.  “You really think he’s afraid of beatin’ me?”

“As once being a Necromonger commander was everything to him, now being your right-hand man is everything to him.  He would not risk that, not for anything.”

“So he threw the game.”

I nod.

“What about you?  You didn’t have to go along with it.”

“I have no wish to cause Vaako pain.”  I did so once, in depriving him of his companion.  It is difficult to mourn Dame Vaako, snake that she was, but I still regret the pain I inflicted on Vaako by killing her.

“Thought I was the only one you’d take a hit for.”

I smile up at him, feeling his gaze on my face even though my eyes are closed.  “You have not tested my loyalty in some months.  The lengths to which I will go for you have expanded.”

“Have they?”  He leans down and nips the tip of my nose very gently.

“Ow.”

“You better not be thinkin’ that you’d take a real hit for me.  Thought we settled that.”

“We have.”  He gave me a command, and I disagreed.  Quadrangle is not the only thing he has taught me in the months we have been together. He has also given me a master class in free-thinking.

“Liaden.”  His warning growl.  I ignore it.  He will not spoil the day, not for something that is not a pressing concern.  And I will not spoil the day, not when he so clearly needs this time of rest and respite.  I stretch against him, arching my crossed legs, feeling the wonderful contraction and release of my mucles.  How blissful is it to lie in the sun, cuddled against my beloved, with no occupation other than whether or not to nap before dinner?

“You’re ignoring me?” he asks, a note of incredulity in his voice.

“I never ignore you, my love.  I’m merely obeying you.  You ordered me to enjoy the day and I am doing so.”

He chuckles.  “I’m never gonna win with you, am I?”

“It is surprising that you continue to try.”

“Yeah, but now I found your weakness.  All I gotta do is get Vaako to make sad eyes at you and you give in.”

I giggle.  And sigh when he hugs me tight, and let myself drift, cradled by the sun and wind and his strong arms. 


	12. Chapter 12

As the sun sets, the Beast leads Sanjula out into the green waves. I sit at the water’s edge with Daray, Zetty and Tirea, watching, as the Beast shows Sanjula how to spear-fish. There are already several buckets of fish on the hover sled, caught while we were napping with the net Sanjula made as we played Quadrangle. Now the Beast leads Sanjula into deeper water, after bigger game. I have no fears for the Beast. He is the scariest thing in the water. But I still feel a frisson of concern when I see a dark fin break water not far from the rocks where the Beast and Sanjula stand.

They do not spear any of the toothy rays, but rather wriggling, multi-legged creatures that they drag up off the sea floor. The Beast catches three in quick succession, but even he is outdone by Sanjula, who spears five in the same short time.

They wade back to shore with their thrashing burdens strung over their shoulders. Daray jeers at the size of the Beast’s catch, one of which is particularly diminuative in comparison to the specimens Sanjula has caught. The Beast takes his commander’s ribbing with a good-natured grin and my heart soars to see how freely and openly he smiles.

The Beast dumps the smallest creature he has caught into a bucket with Sanjula’s monsters, and leaves the other two strung over his shoulder. Their struggles are dying now, even as the creatures themselves are dying, deprived of their aqueous environment. Still, the horny beaks hidden amongst their many legs are sharp and several red wheals score the Beast’s golden shoulder from where they have caught him in their death throes. “Do you want another bucket for those, my lord?” I ask.

“Nope, we’re gonna skin ‘em right away. Get ‘em in some Cark to soften ‘em up.”

I do not question his culinary aims and go to retrieve a bowl and the flask of Cark that Chef provided with our lunch. Returning to the windbreak, I find that most of the equipment has been repacked in the hover sled, presumably by Vaako and Zetty while we slept, since everyone else napped away the afternoon on the warm sand, and I cannot imagine Nadie assisting in such menial duties. However, there is still an insulated bag sitting in the sand. Opening it, I find another packed meal, but the portions are much smaller. Certainly, Chef did not intend this meal to feed all who accompanied us to the beach.

I glance over my shoulder at the Beast and find him a step behind me, smiling at my quizzical expression. “Thought we might camp overnight.”

I feel an answering smile light my face. “I would like nothing better.”

“Good.” He runs his hand, still cool from the water, down my arm. “You okay with it just bein’ you and me?”

Ignoring the still-twitching bundle over his shoulder, I throw my arms around his neck and kiss him enthusiastically. His hand curves up my back, pressing me to him. When I come up for air, he chuckles, “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”

“I’ll build a fire, and a lean-to, my love.” As my mother taught me when we were hunted overnight on our lands. “You need not worry about bugs—”

“Before you start rubbin’ sticks together, I brought some gear. It’s in the second skimmer.”

He has put so much thought into this day. So much planning. I understand now why he required two skimmers. He always intended for us to spend the night away from Zibon, under the stars. I smile up at him, letting my delight shine in my eyes. He chuckles and hands me one of the slippery sea-beasts to skin.

After we sink the clean white flesh of the sea-beasts into the bowl of Cark, he shows me the results of his forethought. Sanjula accompanies us into the skimmer’s dim cool and stands beside me as I inspect a carefully folded bundle. The material is scalecloth, black as the sands of this beach. Tiny gray veins run through the scalecloth, creating intricate patterns. I admire what must be Tirea’s handiwork, but am at a complete loss as to what the bundle is.

“Is it a tent?” Sanjula asks.

“Little more permanent than that,” the Beast replies. He takes an edge of the bundle, I take another and Sanjula takes a third and between us, we carry it out of the skimmer and down to where Daray and Vaako are dismantling the windbreak. The bundle weighs little, particularly between three of us. At the Beast’s direction, we set the bundle down on the sands. Tirea hurries over and shows the Beast how to unfold the bundle. She presses in several places, and we all step back.

It opens like a flower. Each careful fold sliding apart. The veins that run through the dark material pulse and swell. Ribs stiffen, rising like fingers to spear the sky, digging down into the sand. The scalecloth stretches between the rising fingers. As the fingers rise to their full three meters, the scalecloth pulls taut and hardens into eight walls. Along the top of each wall, the scales flake away, scattering to ash, leaving a wide band of transparent cloth that allows the red-gold sunlight to shaft into the habitable’s interior. 

Beside me, Tirea makes a soft sound of annoyance. “The door’s supposed to open by now.”

Before she finishes speaking, a strip of scales flakes off one wall in a neat line, defining a door.

The Beast claps her on the shoulder. “Not bad, Master Weaver. Not bad.”

Tirea smiles, and her eyes flick to me. “It was the flowers in Lady Liaden’s garden that gave me the idea. The way they open.”

“Knew your bouffy flowers would be good for somethin’,” the Beast murmurs to me as he moves to the door.

I favor him with a glare, then turn a much more approving gaze to Tirea. “It is a marvel. And so light. It could be carried anywhere.”

Tirea nods. “The Lord Marshal asked me for something that could be easily transported. When the Legionnaires begin exploring the rest of the planet, they can take these with them. They won’t have to return to Zibon every night.” 

We follow the Beast into the habitable. Within, it is surprisingly spacious. The octagonal interior is divided into quarters, separated by veils of translucent scalecloth. The quarter we’ve come into is a sitting area, with low couches that inflate as we watch. Ahead, through the veil, there is a sleeping area, in which a huge bed rises majestically. To my right, counters swell to waist-height against the walls. In the fourth quarter, the floor itself seems to be burrowing down into the sand, creating a depression large enough for even the Beast’s frame. A bath. Somehow, Tirea has created a bathing chamber in her magic tent. 

“How did you make all this?” I ask in wonder.

“Navellium,” Tirea answers. “See the little veins? They’re full of namites. They’re activated by the solar energy. The Lord Marshal gave me the parameters and I programmed the namites to build the structures. They can use sand or rock or anything in the ground as building blocks. The more it sits in the sun, the further the external supports will burrow down into the sand. In a few days, it will withstand anything but a major earthquake.”

“Tirea, it is a marvel.”

She gives me a broad smile. “Do you really like it? I didn’t have time for decoration.”

Lit with Kreon’s red-gold light, a haven from bugs and blowing sand and anything that might roam the beach, filled with comfort, it needs no decoration. “It’s beautiful. It needs nothing else.”

“Actually,” says the Beast from where he peers through the veil into the bedroom. “A few pillows would be nice.”

Tirea chuckles. “They’re within the bed. When it is finished, they’ll pop out. I didn’t forget your specifications.”

The Beast grunts in approval. 

“Let me just check the lens connection,” Tirea says, turning to a blue bubble on the wall near the door. “It was a little erratic in testing.” She fiddles with the bubble while the Beast, Sanjula and I explore her creation. In the dining quarter, the L-shaped counter frames a food-preparation and dining area. There is a recycler with a small stock of concentrates, a heating surface and a cold box. It would not, doubtless, be up to Chef’s standards, but it is more than adequate for basic food preparation. I see the hand of my love most clearly in the bathing chamber, with its focus on the huge depressed bath, which is filling slowly with water. The necessary elements of the bathroom are screened by another translucent veil. Modest and hygienic. In the sleeping quarter, the bed finishes building itself with dramatic flare, the pillows popping out of the unfolding covers a meter into the air. There are a great many pillows, and I sense the Beast’s hand in this, too, as well as the thin rail that defines the top of the round bed. He likes to have something to prop the pillows against, as well as something to tie me to.

I catch his eye as I inspect the bed and he grins at me. An open, whole-hearted grin. I go to him, running my fingers lightly across his bare chest, feeling the slight abrasion of sand, the dampness of sweat. Whatever time it is, it is time for his bath.

He cups my back, fingers tangling in my loose hair and the light fabric of my gown. “You ready for us to be alone?” he asks softly.

I look up at him. He has lifted his goggles in the filtered light of the little habitable; his eyes gleam with pure predatory anticipation. His plans for the day do not end with a comfortable place to eat and sleep. “More than ready, my love,” I whisper back.

“Yeah, me, too.” He tucks me against his side and turns to the two women in the habitable with us. “Jules, Tirea, time for you to say goodbye.”

Tirea looks startled, but Sanjula nods. “Tirea’s been so excited about this. I just wanted to see it. I bet everyone’s already in the other skimmer. Come on, Tirea.”

“I am still uncertain of the lens, Lord Marshal,” Tirea says hesitantly.

“There’s one on the skimmer,” the Beast responds. “You’ve done good here. Take tonight off when you get back home.”

Tirea smiles gratefully. “Yes, Lord Marshal.”

We accompany them out, wave them across the sand to the skimmer where the rest of our party has gathered. Nadie lingers by the skimmer’s ramp, shifting from foot to foot and looking uncomfortable. Perhaps sand has gotten under her tight dress to chafe her in delicate places. One can but hope.

With a parting salute, Vaako ushers everyone aboard the skimmer and we watch it rise in a cloud of ash and sand. “Gonna have to break him of that,” the Beast rumbles.

“Saluting?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Does it do any harm?” I ask. “It’s a mark of his respect for you. I think it might hurt him to be forbidden from showing that respect.”

“Yeah?” The Beast glances down at me, but he has lowered his goggles and I cannot see what expression his eyes contain. “You’re awful concerned about Vaako all of a sudden.”

I shrug. “Before we left the Armada, I thought he might have forgiven me for killing his Dame. He seemed, well, if not friendly, at least welcoming. Since we’ve landed, I fear I’m nothing but an annoyance to him.”

The Beast grunts, a high, disapproving grunt. “Want me to talk to him?”

A word from the Beast might change his commander’s behavior, but not the underlying resentment. “No, I will win Vaako over myself, if I can. Perhaps by throwing another Quadrangle game.” I wink at him.

He chuckles. “Still can’t believe you threw the game ‘causa that. You know you wouldn’t have done that if we were alone.”

“Think you so little of my strategic capabilities that I am incapable of losing a battle in order to win the war?” I ask, in mock dismay.

He roars with laughter. “You’ve never lost a battle, not once you’ve picked it. Never met anyone as competitive as you are.”

I elbow him in the side. “Except you. Would you like a rematch now?”

“No. I got somethin’ else in mind.” He scoops me up and carries me into the bathing chamber, where he strips off my dress, despite my half-hearted protests. “Told you, from now on when we’re alone, you go naked.” He runs his hands down my arms. Cups my breasts in his big palms. “You caught a little sun.” He traces the faint gilding of my skin beneath the edge of my Collar. “Makes you look like you been dipped in gold. So beautiful, Liaden.”

His words fill me with joy. “You look very well after a day in the sun, too, my love.” I reach up and trace his unfurrowed brow, whisper my fingertips along his cheeks, which are still lean but no longer hollowed with care. “Could we make time to come here in the future?”

“Yeah. That’s why I asked Tirea to make somethin’ permanent. We can come here anytime you want.”

“I would like to come here anytime you want. Whenever what weighs on you back there – which we have forgotten so we can enjoy today,” I say quickly when he begins to frown. “Whenever your heart gets too heavy, we can come here and forget those burdens for a time.”

He catches my hand and presses it to his cheek. “It ain’t my heart. I dunnow what it is. I feel like . . .” He pauses and I move a little closer to him in the hopes that he will continue. Unburden himself to me. “I feel like it’s changin’ me, bein’ here. And I won’t like what I’m changin’ into.”

“My love, you will always be yourself.” He is so sure, so resolute, how could he be anything else?

He shakes his head. “I dunnow. An’ we weren’t gonna talk about this today. C’mon, I want a bath.”

I nod, but my heart aches. That was the wrong thing to say. I should have asked what was forcing him into such an unwelcome change. Let him explain what troubles him. Instead I tried to reassure him and he closed off from me. I tuck away both the remonstrance, and the query, for later. It is time and past time for his bath. For our comfortable routine. For the pleasure that we both find in my ministration to this needs.

I undress him slowly, circling his body, touching every centimeter of flesh I expose. His skin is more burnished after a day in the sun, a deep, rich bronze. It is lovely to the eye, as well as to the touch. He has relaxed since our stirring play on the beach, but as I stroke him, he grows tumescent again. He lets his head tilt to the side as he follows my progress. His eyes half-close, and a smile tugs at his full lips. “Liaden.”

“My love?” 

“You know that offer you made me earlier?”

“To relieve you with my hand?”

“Yeah. Not all the way, but I want some. Stand behind me.”

I quickly obey and press against his back. I caress his firm buttocks, his flexing hips, before trailing my fingers across his silky, heated skin to find the curling hair at his groin. I rub my fingertips through it and delight in his soft groan. “Is this what you want?” I whisper into his shoulder.

“Little lower,” he says, his voice deepening with desire.

“Here?” I ask, as I slide my fingers down his length. 

He groans, full-throated and husky, and lets his head loll back on his thickly-muscled neck. “Yeah, right there.”

I cup him in my hands. Rub and roll the silky length of him between my palms. He hardens further, swelling in my hands. I trace the thick veins that rime the underside of his shaft, scratching very lightly with my nails. Feel my own arousal pool and swirl with the deep exhalations I wring from him. 

When I reach his tip, I explore his shape with my thumbs. The heavy, rounded plum of his glans. The tiny dip that runs across his head. I stroke that sensitive depression and listen to him groan. His very tangible arousal dampens my fingertips.

“More, my love?” I ask. I would very much like to take him in my mouth now. To feel his constrained power slide between my lips and down into the recesses of my throat. 

“Little more,” he grunts.

I close my hands around him and tug gently, running my palms and curled fingers from base to tip. I build towards a rhythm, our rhythm, the slow but steady motion he uses when he takes me. His hips begin to rock, knowing this rhythm well. Sweat beads on his skin where we touch, trickles wet and warm between my breasts and over the curve of my belly. I rub my cheek between his shoulder-blades, glorying in the scent that rises from his damp skin. “Please let me take you in my mouth,” I whisper.

He shakes his head slightly. “It’ll be over too soon. I said I was gonna hold you on the edge until you begged. I keep my promises. Get in the bath.”

“Of course, my love.” With a lingering stroke of my palms, I release him and climb into the bath. I have none of my usual implements. No soaps or sponges. But the water and my hands will do.

He sinks into the water with a deep sigh. He does so love his bath. He spreads his arms across the rounded rim, shaped exactly like the bath in our chambers. I kneel before him, resting on his thighs as he prefers. Taking one of his hands, I dip it in the water, and begin laving him with my fingertips, lightly washing away the accumulated detritus of the day. I am silent, as I usually am in his bath, letting him choose whether he wants to speak or simply reflect. He says nothing for a few moments, watching me wash him. Then he leans his head back against the bath’s rim, and begins to speak. “We never have figured out why the Lowies don’t come here. To these black sand beaches.”

“Heat?” I suggest. “The sand absorbs a great deal of heat during the day. Perhaps it is too hot for them.”

“Yeah, maybe. We haven’t seen Antyons come down on ‘em, either, and they’re the Lowies favorite food.”

That and legionnaires, by the sound of things, but that would be unkind to say since I know each loss pains my love deeply. “How many of these black sand beaches are there?”

“I charted six, but they weren’t what I was lookin’ for, so I mighta overlooked one or two.”

Unlikely, given my love’s powers of observation. “Are they all from old lava flows?”

“All but one. I’m savin’ that one to show you another time. It’s further away, and it’s too rocky for much walkin’, but it’s special. You won’t believe it. It’s not sandy like this one, just piles of little pebbles. But they’re iridescent, like those roses you grow. Black and green and blue. Like beetles’ wings. All flashin’ in the sunlight.”

“I look forward to seeing it.” Particularly if it gets him away from Zibon, and gives him the freedom to smile as broadly as he is now.

“We’ll go soon. We’ll . . . get away more,” he says with a slight hesitation, as though working toward some decision. Then his tone lightens. “If your garden can spare you.”

I lean forward to kiss his chin. “One of the best things about plants is how forgiving they are of occasional neglect.”

“Bet those bouffy flowers ain’t so forgivin’.”

It is true my Caprunes require extraordinary attention. But their beauty makes it more than worthwhile. “Like anything wild and rare, they demand devotion.”

He cracks open an eye and looks at me. “You comparin’ me to your flowers?”

“Would I?”

He chuckles and closes his eye again. “If you thought you could get away with it, yeah.”

I stroke the smooth planes of his chest. “Your skin is as silken as a Caprune petal,” I tease.

“Don’t go there, Liaden.”

“And your eyes as gleaming as a Caprune White.”

“This ain’t gonna end well for you,” he warns, but there is only amusement in his tone, and I think it will end well for both of us. Climactically, at the very least.

I trail my fingers down to his lap. “And you have a mighty thorn.”

“Which I’m gonna prick you with until you scream pretty soon, so hurry up.”

I slow my languid strokes even further, as he doubtless knew I would, swirling my fingers over and over the skin of his belly and thighs. “Hurrying the care of things wild and rare yields poor results.” I tickle my fingertips towards his jutting thorn. “Stunted growth. Although you do not seem to suffer from such dwarfing.”

“You use the word _stunted_ to describe anything of mine again—”

I giggle. I can’t help it. “On the contrary, my love, you seem to be burgeoning.”

“Enough,” he growls. “C’mon, I got a promise to keep.” He grabs my waist and lifts me out of the bath as he rises. There is an awkward moment when we both realize that his specifications did not include towels. “Knew I forgot something,” he grumbles, before carrying me to the huge bed, where the blankets and multitude of pillows soak the water from our skin, and the other fluids we produce as he keeps his promise and bites me until I beg for release.

 

I lie in the circle of his arm, looking up at the scalecloth ceiling, watching the light through the translucent panel shade to the deep orange of sunset. Although we are sheltered in the habitable, the air still carries the saline tang of the sea. It mingles with the salt from our bodies as we dry a second time. The Beast’s usual ardor has returned in full measure, it seems.

“I like the light this time of day,” the Beast says, his voice low and soft. “Easy on the eyes.”

“I’ve seen sunsets on many worlds,” I tell him. “None is so beautiful as Furya’s.”

“Yeah? It is good. Not as dramatic as Crematoria’s. But you don’t broil or freeze to death in a few seconds here, either.”

“That sounds like a harsh world,” I observe, in the hopes that he will tell me more of this world and his time there.

“It is. Thousand degree difference between day and night. Nothing grows there. Not like here. It’s a good world, Liaden.” He sounds wistful.

“It is,” I agree. “I fell in love with it the first time I walked outside.”

“Yeah?” He gives a satisfied sigh. “I’ve dreamed about it for a long time. But it ain’t the only world. We could find somewhere else, if we had to.”

“Of course we could. But there is no need. This is our world now.”

“Yeah.” But he sounds neither certain nor satisfied.

To distract him, I ask, “Is it as you dreamed?”

“Pretty much. More water than in my dreams. An’ it’s sweeter, especially the rain. You notice that?”

I hadn’t, but I haven’t been out in the rain. “Are the storms frightening?” There is little that frightens him, so I amend, “Exhilarating?”

“Bit of both. Lotta lightning. You don’t wanna get caught on high ground. Afterwards, the bugs really come out t’play. Probably eat you alive, but they’re beautiful, too. Here, look.”

I glance at him, wondering how he will show me. When he looks down at me steadily, I realize he wants me to look in his mind, into his memory. I reach along the link between us carefully, not wanting to intrude where I am unwanted. But I find his mind open, a silver-lit memory filling his thoughts. Millions of wings. Gilt and tinsel. Swirling through the air with a kaleidoscope of reflected colors and a hum, a throbbing whisper, that swells with life. 

“That is beautiful,” I say, awed.

He smiles, turns on his side and traces a fingertip down over my nose and chin. “This planet’s full of beauty.”

He lets his fingers linger on my mouth and I kiss them one by one. He has not closed his mind to me, and I feel his contentment and satisfaction glowing through our link, brighter than the sunset. He has everything he wants in this moment.

Why, then, is it so different back in Zibon?

His mouth twists and he sighs.

“I’m sorry, my love. Forgive me. Let us just enjoy the day.”

“Liaden, if I knew what was wrong, I’d fix it. I don’t fuckin’ know. I know I can’t sleep at night. Food tastes wrong. I hear noises when nothin’s there. Smell smoke when nothin’s on fire. Feels like my brain’s burnin’. Old Man says there’s nothin’ wrong with me, an’ all I can tell you is I feel different. Like I’m becomin’ somethin’ I’m not meant to be. Everyone wants a piece of me and I got nothin’ left for you, but the only time I feel like myself is when you’re with me. I know I keep pullin’ an’ pushin’ you. I don’t know how to stop.”

“I will always be with you,” I breathe, horrified by the depths of his turmoil, the edges of which I have barely glimpsed.

He shakes his head. “I can’t ask you to sleep with me when I’m sleepin’ half the day, or feed me when you don’t even want to eat—”

I interrupt him before he convinces himself of any of those things. “I am content to sleep whenever you do. Perhaps your rhythms are shifting; perhaps Furyans are nocturnal. I lived that way for years on Tarenge when my mother was teaching me to hunt. I will gladly adopt whatever patterns you do, my love. And Tomoetu is constantly telling me to eat more often—”

“He’s what?” The Beast growls.

That was the wrong thing to say. “I live to serve you, you know that. Let me feed you whenever you are hungry. Let me lie beside you whenever you tire. I will listen for those sounds you hear and watch for the fire that haunts you and fight whatever seeks to change you. I will not let you push me away, no matter how hard you try. You cannot pull me closer than I want to be. Nothing will force you to change while I guard you, I swear.”

“Liaden.” He leans over and kisses me, deep and sweet. “You mean that, don’t you?”

“Of course I do. Nothing is more important to me than your happiness.”

“Not even your fuckin’ garden? What’re you gonna do if we sleep all day, garden at night?”

He has grown jealous, and resentful, of my garden. I was blind not to see it before. “It need not be me who hoes and plants, or weeds and reaps. I have many hands to assist me now. I need only be the architect. And there is nothing so pleasant as gardening at night. I will create a moon garden, for just the two of us to enjoy while everyone else sleeps.”

“Will it make me itch less?” He grumbles, but I can feel his pleasure at my words.

“Nothing will disturb you there.” I trace the planes of his cheek and he leans into my hand. “I promise. Not even Nadie.”

He chuckles. “She is a major disturbance. You really think I might be goin’ nocturnal?”

“I think it’s a possibility. Are the other Furyans nocturnal?”

“I dunnow. I haven’t asked. But I can tell you that Cawl and the quiet one, Hardy, are havin’ as much trouble sleepin’ as I am. I heard them talkin’ about it.”

“Then it is a probability. You are returning to your natural state. Let us try sleeping during the day and see if it makes you feel better. And perhaps a diet of native food. Maybe it is just our Necromonger fare that your stomach rejects.”

“Yeah? That’d be a fuckin’ shame. No more of Chef’s stew. No more Cark. I’d miss those.”

“Chef can make his stew with native ingredients, and I’m sure Furya’s bounty can provide a substitute for Cark. You need not deprive yourself. Only make small changes, which might reap a bigger effect. We have to try. I cannot bear to see you so miserable, my love.”

“I’m not miserable.”

Then he’s doing an excellent impression of misery. “Is there anything else that would make you happy?”

He kisses the tip of my nose. “Hearin’ you beg again. That made me pretty happy.”

“Gladly, my love. Gladly.”


	13. Chapter 13

Whatever his new nocturnal leanings, little disturbs his sleep this night. I wake twice in the darkness to empty my bladder – a problem that is growing as the baby grows – both times he barely acknowledges my leaving or return with more than a sleepy grunt and a tightening of his arms around me. We sleep late, and my dreams have that edged clarity that morning dreams so often have, a mix of memory and imagination.

I find myself back in my rose garden, with the Elemental at my side, my fingers stained with iridacia sap, as she tells me again her terrible prediction. But there are more than words in my dream. She blows through her ephemeral fingers, and weaves a spell in the air, a puppet’s play that illustrates her words with holographic clarity. Shirah, dressed no longer in bridal white but all in black, her belly swollen to double the size of mine, ruling from a throne of skulls while Riddick sits, hollow-eyed, at her side. Me fleeing through the leafy jungle with Daray and Sanjula, and a sling across my chest from which waves a tiny fist. I feel my own sick dread, at the distant sound of shots from the hunters that pursue us, from the knowledge that Riddick will never forgive me for taking our child from him. I watch the dream-child grow, from a curly-haired toddler to a young woman, straight and strong, but scarred from a lifetime of being both hunter and hunted. And I watch as she is finally brought down, by a man who has his father’s strength of body, but his mother’s poisoned heart. I watch as he stabs her with blades of flesh and metal, exults over her as her bright blood stains the jungle floor—

The Beast’s roar wakes me. I sit up sharply, clutching the blanket to my chest, and my other hand to the muscle I have freshly pulled with such abrupt movement. He stands across the room from me, naked, every muscle taut, the cords of his neck raised so sharply they must tear through his skin. The scalecloth walls still ring with his pain.

“My-my love—“ I choke.

“That wasn’t just a dream.”

“No,” I admit hesitantly.

“What’d she tell you?”

“That she foresaw terrible things. But they need not come to pass—“ I raise a hand to placate him.

“Too fuckin’ right, they don’t. You swore you’d never leave me, Liaden.”

“I did it to protect our baby. Shirah would have killed her.” What am I doing, justifying the actions of a dream? “I-I did not, I would not—“

He uncoils, flexing his fists, and paces around the bed. “No, you did not and you would not because none of it’s gonna happen. This ends now. Today.”

His vision replaces the dream in my mind. Just as bright with blood, but it is Shirah’s body that lies pierced and torn on the jungle floor. And her Guardian’s. And the scarred Furyans. Elkie’s bright crest stained red, and Cawl’s gray locks matted with dirt and viscera. I feel tears start from my eyes as I reach a hand towards the Beast. “Please, Riddick. Please, no. There must be another way.”

“You cry for them but not for her?!” he roars at me.

“Our daughter is not yet born. That future need not come to pass. You intend to slaughter them today! Please, I beg you—”

“Don’t beg for them! I told you not to get attached. Told you they had nothin’ to offer us, an’ now I find out you’ve been hiding this from me!”

“No!” How could he think that? “I’ve hidden nothing from you. The Elemental came to me the night before last. You were already asleep and I did not want to wake you. You left before I woke in the morning and I did not see you until we were ready to leave for the beach. You asked me for the day. To forget everything so we could enjoy the day, and I did. I always do as you ask—”

“Doubt I asked you to run away with her,” he growls.

“It was a dream!”

“It was more than that an’ you know it. She calculates. That’s what she’s told me. She knew I was gonna kill your Lord Marshal before you Necros even invaded Helion—“

“He is not my Lord Marshal! You are. I will always follow you. I will always obey you. You will not allow this to happen. I know you!”

“I don’t know myself!” He roars. “Haven’t you heard me?! There’s somethin’ wrong with me. Somethin’s changin’ me. And that’s what it’s changin’ me into. A coward. A spineless fuckin’ coward who sits at her feet! Just like they are. A spineless coward who doesn’t protect his own. That’s my future here!”

I shake my head as I feel tears pulse down my cheeks. “I cannot believe that.”

“Believe whatever the fuck you want, Liaden. I shoulda seen this comin’. I saw what they were. Now I know how they got that way. Get dressed. We’re goin’ back an’ I’m finishing this before it starts.”

I wipe my cheeks and rise from the bed, but cannot stop fresh tears as I find my discarded dress and boots. He dresses without me, leaves the habitable without speaking to me. I feel soul-curling shame and know it is a reflection of what he feels. He will destroy that which he fears, even if he destroys himself in the process. 

I pack our uneaten dinner and breakfast and seal the little habitable behind me. The black sand beach is empty of all but mid-morning light and a few sea-birds who pick their way along the curling foam at water’s edge. I watch them for a moment, wishing I could take flight with them, escape the coming horrors. 

When I do not find any avenue of escape, I make my way to the skimmer where I know the Beast waits for me.

He does not look at me as I enter, merely points to a seat some distance from his. Ctyren and the Bird crouch on the floor near my seat, their cowed postures showing that the Beast has been as cold to them as he is to me. I strap myself in quickly and quietly. 

The Beast has the skimmer in the air in a few moments. He is an expert pilot, and usually takes pleasure in flying, but there is no enjoyment in his actions today. Just brutal efficiency. He pushes the small craft to its limits, until the view through the front lens is little more than a green blur. 

Or perhaps that is just the crystal veil through which I watch.

 

His first words to me when we land are brusque. “You stay inside until this is over.” 

“Yes, Riddick.” I stroke the Bird in my lap for comfort. Ctyren presses against my knees with a small whine, and I do not think his consternation is because I have taken his avian charge from him.

“I mean it, Liaden. You don’t go outside. You’re where I can find you. Every minute, until they’re all dead.” He flips off his flight harness while the skimmer powers down.

“Yes, Riddick.”

He looks at me for a long moment, his eyes the color of lead. “We’ll settle this when it’s over.”

I nod. But I know it will never be over for him. If he destroys his people, he will destroy that in him which is Furyan. It will haunt him, and he will find no peace. Not with me, not with himself.

I cannot let him destroy his soul to protect me from some imaginary future.

I follow him silently off the skimmer. Stand with our animals while I watch him stride away towards the lifts from the hangar to the upper levels of Zibon. His shoulders have drawn up into a rigid line. The low lights of the hangar cast shadows into the returned hollows under his eye and cheek. Whether it is the mysterious ailment or his grim plans that have brought back the pall of misery, it drapes him like a cloak. I long to run after him, rip away that cloak, wrap my arms around him and kiss him until all that plagues him is forgotten. But that is not the way to help him.

But perhaps I know something that can.

 

I gesture to the low couch across from me and the Elemental sinks onto it, carefully arranging her white robes across her knees. “Liaden, I was pleased to receive your invitation. I haven’t been in this chamber before.” She nods her cowled head at the huge lens on the wall of my solarium. “It has an enviable view.”

I should have invited her before, but I have no time for apologies. “Something terrible has happened. I need your help.”

She inclines her head regally. “If I can.”

“Riddick learned of your prediction – the prophesy about Shirah’s son murdering our daughter. It happened when . . . it was unfortunate . . .” I grope for the right way to say that the Beast learned of the prophesy at a moment of great vulnerability. “It was the worst possible moment and Riddick has taken it very badly. He intends to kill all the Furyans. To ensure that the prophesy never comes to pass. He’ll slaughter them all, Aereon. Please, please, you have to help me.” I feel myself start to tremble. I twist my hands together to retain the composure I have only recently recovered. “It will destroy something in him, to annihilate his own people. I can’t let him do this.”

The Elemental casts those witchy eyes down at her lap. She smooths an invisible wrinkle in her skirts. Avoids my eyes. What is she doing? Does she not agree with me?

“Aereon?”

She lifts her gaze to mine. Her blue eyes are cold, empty of any emotion. She is calculating. “Are you certain you wish to prevent this? The Furyans, Shirah in particular, represent the greatest threat to your daughter’s survival. By eliminating that threat, Riddick improves the odds of your daughter surviving to take his throne to a near certainty.”

Puck and Hobbi, with their wrinkles and wisdom, dead at the Beast’s hand. Evon, her bright hooks dimmed by blood. Elkie’s white crest stained red and Cawl’s dreadlocks crusted with gore. I shake my head. “The Furyans are blameless. There must be another way. Please, you have to help me convince Riddick there’s another way.”

“And if there isn’t?”

“Did you foresee this?” My heart contracts into a cold knot. “Is that why you told me what you did, when you did?”

She sighs, and her veils thin and flutter in the spectral wind that only she feels. “I will admit that my calculations preceded our discussion by several days.”

“So you waited,” I hiss, feeling the sting of her manipulation.

“Until the time was most propitious. You know the stakes here are higher than just one life, yours or your daughter’s. The course of Furya’s future will be set now, in these days.”

I rise, clutching at my belly, where movement flutters, stirred no doubt by my distress. The pulled muscle twitches. “And you had no thought for what this would do to Riddick? Did that never enter your calculations?”

“Riddick is a murderer by his own admission. He has killed uncounted numbers, hundreds, perhaps thousands. A few dozen more, for the sake of the best cause he has ever had, hardly tilts the scales.”

“You won’t help me, then,” I say, despairing. I cannot think of any other way to turn the Beast from this self-destructive path. What can I do? What can I say that will sway him?

Aereon smooths her dress again. “I didn’t say that. I will speak with Riddick, if that’s what you desire. But I will not lie to him, Liaden. Not for your sake, or for his. If he asks me what I foresee, I will tell him.”

I cannot ask more of her. “Please.”

She nods and rises. “Come, each minute matters.”

Does it? I hurry after her.

We find the Beast in his command center. He stands alone at the front of the room. Daray and Sirel lift their eyes to mine as we enter, but quickly look away. A technician I do not know stands closest to the Beast, hovering, clutching a portable lens in his hands. The Beast paces between two huge lenses mounted on the wall. One shows Vaako’s pale, set face. The other the rolling green of Furya’s jungle.

“You’re not pickin’ up anything?” He growls at Vaako.

The commander shakes his head. “No sign of them.”

“How deep do the scanners go?” He asks, turning to the technician. “How far into the ground?”

The technician shakes his head. “I don’t know exactly, Lord Riddick. Maybe ten meters?”

“Their caves are deeper than that,” the Beast says, half to himself. “They could be hidin’ in the lower galleries.”

“I will land and search,” Vaako says.

“No. Finish the sweep. If that’s where they’re hidin’, we’ll go in force. No way of knowin’ what they’ve got down there.”

“Their weapons are wood and bone,” Vaako responds. “They are no match for us.”

“I can kill every one of you with a stick and a bone. Finish the sweep. We make sure we got ‘em pinned down,” the Beast growls. “Then we’ll go in.”

“Yes, my lord.”

When the Beast pivots to resume his pacing, Aereon and I curtsey. He stops, his mouth tightens into a white line, and for a moment I think he will dismiss us without hearing a word. But then his mouth softens and he takes two steps towards us. “Liaden,” he says. 

I bow my head. “Riddick.”

He gives a low grunt of approval. I could dare think he has begun to forgive me, if I did not see the depth of the rage line in his brow.

“Whaddo you want?” he asks, but his tone is gentle.

“There is more you should know about Aereon’s prediction,” I say.

“Yeah?” He shifts his silver glare to the Elemental. “What?”

She returns his glare placidly. “I understand you intend to kill the surviving Furyans.”

The muscles of the Beast’s jaw work, but he answers her evenly. “Yeah.”

“It is the best chance for your daughter surviving to succeed you,” Aereon says.

Now it is my turn to glare at her.

“I worked that out for myself,” the Beast says. “That what you rushed up here to tell me?”

“It is not the only chance. Nor is it the best chance for your own survival, nor for a future with Liaden and your daughter.”

I struggle to keep my surprise off my face. She didn’t tell me any of that.

“What, Shirah’s got some long-lost relative who’ll come gunnin’ for revenge? You think that’d scare me?”

Aereon brushes by the technician, until she is eye-to-eye with the Beast. “I think little scares you except the possibility of losing Liaden,” she murmurs to him, so low I can barely hear her. “The child means much to you, but there will be other children. Liaden is not so easily replaced.”

The Beast’s eyes flick to me and then back to the Elemental. “She can’t be replaced at all,” he responds in the same low tone.

“Then you should know that I calculate the odds of you losing her, should you kill the surviving Furyans here, now, as very high indeed. I see her being taken from you in revenge, or falling defending you. There are many possibilities, but few that include a future together.”

The Beast’s nostrils flare as he blows out a long breath. “That really what you see, or are you just sayin’ that because she asked you to?”

Aereon stiffens. “I do not lie. Not for your sake, and not for hers. Believe me, telling the truth is much less comfortable.”

“So what’re you telling me to do?”

Aereon shakes her head. “I cannot decide for you. I can only tell you the likely outcomes of your actions.”

“What actions keep Liaden an’ the baby safe?”

“Destroying the surviving Furyans.”

The Beast growls. “But I lose her.”

“The probability is high, yes.”

“An’ if I don’t kill them?”

“The odds are good that you will become the Furyor, and that misery, murder and despair will follow. Not just for you three, but for thousands.”

I hug my arms, listening to their exchange. No wonder the Beast feels so trapped. There are no good alternatives, and although he does not have the Elemental’s gift of foresight, he often sees what the rest of us do not. He must have known, or guessed, much of this. 

“I don’t give a fuck about them.”

Aereon nods. “Whether or not you care for them, your actions now dictate their future. If you are to secure peace, for them and for yourselves, you must find a balance.”

“Balance,” the Beast snorts. “That’s all you Elementals care about. How many words you got for it?”

“Thirty-three. But as before, we only have time to speak of the balance of opposites. Life to death. Light to dark. What you do here, now, will determine whether this sector is reborn, or spirals down into darkness. And where Furya goes, the universe may follow. Choose carefully.”

The Beast’s eyes flick back to me. “You say that like I got a choice. You haven’t given me anythin’ new. Haven’t told me anythin’ I didn’t already know.”

Aereon steps back, and inspects the two lenses. “Not all hunts end in a kill,” she says distantly. “Sometimes the prey escapes. Sometimes it surrenders and is captured.”

“You’re tellin’ me to capture them? An’ do what? We don’t have a fuckin’ dungeon.”

Aereon turns and looks at me. “Yes, you do. Although it is more of a gilded cage.”

I follow her line of thinking and look down at my hands. My hands, which are always slightly rough from the prick of thorns, the abrasion of dirt. “You can imprison them in my garden,” I offer. I have no illusions that my garden will survive the rage of the imprisoned Furyans. But that loss is of no consequence in the face of the terrible alternatives.

I lift my eyes and find the Beast looking at me. The lines of jaw and cheek and brow rise sharply under his skin. He looks so pained. I cannot stop a fresh tear that spills and slips down my cheek.

He crosses to me, gathers me hard against his chest and whispers into my hair, “Stop crying for them. I’m doin’ this for you.”

“That’s why I’m crying,” I say, laying my cheek against his collar. 

He turns, keeping me pressed against him, and speaks to the lens that reflects Vaako’s face. “New orders. Capture them but no killin’. Not if you can avoid it. Tell the sweep teams.”

“Yes, Lord Marshal,” Vaako replies instantly. The furrow of his brow says that he questions the Beast’s change of heart, but he does not articulate any doubt.

The Beast looks down at me. “They were all gone by the time we got back. Furyans left last night. Elkie decided her ship needed a shake-down run after some repairs. Greer, Booth, Jarone, Hardy, they’re all missin’. Only one still here is Cawl, and that’s ‘cause he’s too old and stubborn to run. You think that’s a coincidence?” His eyes flick to the Elemental.

“No, I do not.”

“Sometimes,” Aereon says softly, still looking at the green image in the lens. “The odds must be nudged, before they tilt in your favor.”

“You been doin’ a lot of nudging,” the Beast growls at her.

“My neutrality has been compromised,” Aereon admits. “But only for the best of causes.”

“After this, you keep your nose out,” the Beast says. He likes being manipulated as little as I do.

“I can only promise to tell the truth. No matter how hard it is to hear. Or to relate. I take no joy in the pain my predictions have wrought, both now and in the past.”

Perhaps she feels she has much to atone for. Particularly when it comes to Furya and its orphans.

“Vaako, signal me when you’ve found them,” the Beast says, then he swipes the lens to clear it and turns to the commanders who are still trying to make themselves invisible. “Daray, none of the Furyans land without my say-so. No one in or out of the hangars except our sweep teams. Clear?”

“Yes, Lord Riddick.” Daray bows.

Still holding me tight to his side, the Beast turns toward the door.

“The Furyans know their planet well,” Aereon says over her shoulder. “It will likely be several hours before they are found.”

“How likely?” the Beast asks.

“Highly likely. You have time.”

“T’do what?” he growls.

“Salve pains old and new.”

The Beast’s arm tightens around me. “Don’t know whether to thank you or ghost you.”

Aereon turns back to the lens. “Only time will tell.”

The Beast escorts me out, his arm around my back, his hand cupping the side of my belly. The warmth of his hand soothes the persistent ache of the pulled muscle. The warmth of his attention soothes the ragged ache of my heart. I lean into his side and rest my head on his shoulder as he guides me down the hallway to the lift. The lift is empty and as we ride it down to the galley level, he turns to me and rubs his thumbs across my cheeks. “Can count on one hand the times I’ve seen you cry.”

“I cannot seem to control myself today, forgive me.”

“Don’t apologize.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “I get the feeling we both just got played.” He strokes my cheeks, swirling away the traces of my tears. “’Sides, Old Man warned me ‘bout this. Baby hormones.”

I chuckle weakly. “Baby hormones? How does weeping constantly help produce new life?”

He shakes his head, but he’s smiling at me. It’s not his open-hearted grin; this smile is constrained at the edges. But he is smiling. “You ready to eat? We missed dinner. An’ breakfast. You must be hungry.”

The tension between us destroyed any appetite I had, but I nod. “I have not yet told Chef about your change of diet. Will you give me a minute to make arrangements?”

“Sure.”

I cup my hands over his. “Will you let me feed you?”

“Sure, if you want to. But you’re gonna eat, too. No excuses.”

“I will.”

The lift doors snick open as we speak. I drop my hands, but the Beast is slower to release me, and it is, of course, Nadie who stands framed in the doorway, her eyes flicking over us as we stand pressed together.

“Lord Riddick, I’m so pleased you’ve returned,” she says, dipping a curtsey, although her eyes hold nothing polite. 

“Nadie,” the Beast answers curtly. He lets his hands fall away from my face, but draws me against his side.

“I’ve already dined, so I could serve you at table if you’d like.” She tilts her head at me. “That would leave Liaden free to eat.” Her eyes drop to my waist. “She must need to eat a great deal now that she’s _breeding_.”

The Beast’s eyes flick between us, a silver slash as quick as a blade. “Actually, you could do somethin’ for me,” he says.

“Of course, my lord. However I might serve you.”

“Take a message to Tirea. Let her know I’ll need forty beds, like the one she made me for the beach. I’ll need ‘em by tonight.” He takes my hand and leads me out of the lift, interposing his large body between me and Nadie. “You got that?” he asks her.

“Yes, my lord.” She steps into the lift, looking slightly crestfallen.

His next words turn her expression from crestfallen to crushed. “An’ Nadie? Tell Tirea to lengthen that skirt by three inches.”

The lift doors close as her chin begins to tremble.

“You could dismiss her,” I offer quietly. “She would annoy you less.”

“Couldn’t annoy me much more.” He turns his back on the lift and, I sense, dismisses Nadie from his mind. He keeps me tight to his side as we walk into the galley.

Rose-gold light fills the galley, spilling through the huge central lens on the opposite wall. A few legionnaires and technicians cluster around tables, sipping drinks and speaking in relaxed tones, but otherwise the galley is empty in the lull between meals.

I leave the Beast speaking to a pair of legionnaires and make my way back into the kitchen. Chef, lean and still clad in Necromonger black, greets me warmly and takes my instruction about the Beast’s new diet without protest. As we discuss the native foodstuffs, he bustles around his huge kitchen, and before we are finished, he has sent out three platters to the Beast. As I prepare to go, he presses a woven silver basket into my hands. “Those are just for you, Lady,” he insists.

I peek at the contents of the basket, hidden under folds of fine white cloth. Three powdery white buns sit in the cloth nest. I have not seen the buns before, but everything Chef makes is delicious. I thank him warmly.

“They’re good for the baby,” he says. “And the Master Healer made me promise that I would serve you rowela nectar with every meal. I’ll bring out a pitcher in a moment.”

Smiling ruefully at Tomoetu’s high-handedness, I take my leave of Chef and return to the Beast.

He’s seated with the two legionnaires, some distance from the head table where we have been sitting of late, and although none of his commanders are present, I sense that he has broken the seating protocol deliberately.

He rises when I approach, and seats me on the bench next to him. The legionnaires rise, too, and bow to me before returning to their seats. 

“Hewl and Setter.” The Beast introduces the legionnaires with a nod to each. “They’ve been patrollin’ the western shock wall while we’ve been gone.”

“Lady Liaden,” the legionnaires chorus in greeting.

I smile at them. While they tell the Beast of their patrol, I prepare a plate for him from the platters on the table before us. Thin slices of marinated creeper meat on a bed of seaweed. Rings of white muscle, battered and deep-fried, which I suspect came from our trip to the black sand beach yesterday. Tiny silver fish that look very like the Aquilian anchovies the Beast favors, swimming in a deep red sauce. Once I’ve arranged his plate, I unwrap his utensils and wait for his nod.

“. . . only in that sector, Lord Riddick,” Hewl reports.

The Beast nods at me and takes the bite of creeper ceviche when I offer it to him. “Just their horns were burned?” he asks as he chews.

The legionnaires nod.

“But you never saw any of ‘em actually near the shock wall?”

“No, Lord Riddick,” Setter says. “Most were careful to avoid it.”

“Maybe they’re smarter than we gave them credit for,” the Beast says between bites. “Tell the next shift to watch for unusual Antyon activity in that sector. They might be testin’ the shock wall for weakness.”

“I will tell them,” Setter offers. “Excuse me, Lord Riddick. Lady Liaden.” He rises and bows again before departing. 

I nod in acknowledgement. I have little interaction with the legionnaires. I have always knows they were superbly trained. What I did not know is that they were so well-mannered.

I feed the Beast in silence for a moment, until I notice the remaining legionnaire’s eyes on me. “I have not seen the Garden while I’ve been on duty, Lady Liaden,” he says. “But I have heard it is a new Eden.”

“There is not much of it yet.” I shrug. Or at least there was not two days ago. With Inker’s machines and many willing hands, the garden might be well advanced. “But I hope it will be such a wonder.”

“Hewl comes from Jeranda,” the Beast says quietly. Does he know the homeworld of each legionnaire? I know he studied the records of those who accompanied us while we travelled, but surely he could not have memorized the personal history of each of the twelve-hundred?

“Many of the samples I have brought come from Jeranda,” I say. “If they thrive on Furya, the garden may look familiar to you.”

The legionnaire smiles shyly. “All of Furya looks familiar to me, Lady. I have dreamed about it since Lord Riddick announced the new colony.”

I smile at him. “I have dreamed of it, too. I did not dream of the Antyons, however.”

“No, Lady.” Hewl chuckles. “None of us did. But as Lord Riddick says, once we understand them, we can master them. Then they will be no threat to us.”

That sounds very much like something the Beast would say. “I look forward to that day.”

“One of them threatened you, I heard,” the legionnaire says hesitantly.

“More than threatened,” the Beast growls around a mouthful of the small fish.

I offer him another fork-full of creeper to placate him. “If Lord Riddick had not saved me, the Antyon would have run me down. I had a good lead on it, but it was faster than anything I’ve seen.”

Hewl nods. “We’ve clocked them at ninety kilometers an hour, and they can sustain that speed for several minutes. You are very lucky, Lady.”

“That I am,” I say, with a warm glance at the Beast.

His lips twitch in what would be a smile if we were alone. 

Hewl glances from me to the Beast and back to me. Flushes slightly. “I will let you enjoy your meal, Lord Riddick,” he says.

The Beast nods. “Tomorrow, when you’re on patrol, I want images of any Antyons you see with burned horns. Maybe we need to adjust the voltage of the wall. Make sure they know we mean business.”

“Yes, Lord Riddick.” Hewl excuses himself with a bow to me and a brisk salute to the Beast.

“Vaako ain’t the only one I gotta break of that habit,” the Beast says, once the erstwhile legionnaire is out of earshot.

“They do it out of respect, not fear,” I observe. 

“You told me they followed me here ‘cause they loved me.” The Beast snorts. “If they love me, they shouldn’t be salutin’.”

I feed him the last of the small fish. “They salute because they love you.”

He lifts a black eyebrow. “Then shouldn’t you be salutin’?” Before I can answer, he grumbles, “An’ shouldn’t you be eatin’? I swear, Liaden—”

I hastily unwrap Chef’s white buns. “I have these. Chef made them specially. I will eat them once I’ve finished feeding you.”

“I can feed myself—“ He reaches for the fork I hold, but I twist it away. Leaning in, I press my forehead to his. 

“I feed you because I love you. Will you let me finish?”

Grumbling, he subsides onto the bench and lets me feed him the rest of the creeper ceviche. When I move on to the battered rings of tentacle, he waves the fork aside. “Don’t actually like that as much as I thought I would.”

I sample one and grimace at its toughness. “I’ll tell Chef.”

“Tell him to try cuttin’ it across the grain and scorin’ it. Might break up the muscle. Now I wanna see you eat. Then we’re goin’ for a walk.”

I nod and pour us two goblets of the rowela nectar Chef’s assistant has brought out while he’s been eating. Making sure he’s looking, I pinch off a bite of the white roll and taste it. It’s extremely light, and delicately flavored. I have not mentioned to Chef how food sometimes sits heavy and unwanted on my stomach, or how strong flavors make me queasy, but he must intuit my difficulty, or he has fed pregnant women before. The steamed bun settles easily onto my stomach, and I finish one before I even think about it, and start on the second.

The Beast watches me, his eyes gleaming over the lip of his goblet. “Better?”

“Yes,” I admit. I was hungry, even though I didn’t feel it.

“Old Man says you’ll gain weight this month, and you shouldn’t worry about it.”

“That’s easy for him to say.” I stretch out my back, which is aching from the night on the unfamiliar bed and the tension of the morning, while I start on the third roll. “He’s not the one who already can’t see her toes, or is so enormous she can’t fit through doors.”

“You know you’re not that big, right?”

Also easy for him to say. “I relish the thought of the day when you can carry this burden rather than me.”

The Beast’s eyes dull. “She’s not a burden.” 

“I didn’t mean that.” The baby hormones must have addled my brain as well as jumbled my emotions. “I just meant—”

“Yeah, I know what you meant.” He tries for a smile, and almost gets there. “An’ I’m lookin’ forward to the day I get to carry her around, too.”

“I had a few more thoughts on names,” I offer, hoping that will help improve his mood.

“Yeah? You can tell me about ‘em while we walk.”

 

He surprises me by wanting to walk in my garden. Not outside, where I would very much like to see the progress that Thaniel and my helpers have made in my absence, but my flower garden. We go first to our quarters, to collect Ctyren and the Bird, then to the water garden, where Ctyren’s sire, Tihamner, has his favorite lay. He growls at us from the nettles as we approach. His mate, Natane, a shadow lying deeper in the foliage, is only a few days away from cubbing and Tihamner is overly defensive. 

Much like the Beast.

Tihamner’s proud snout parts the nettles. His silver eyes, so like the Beast’s, gleam as he greets us in turn. First, the Beast. Then me. Then his cub. Ctyren yips in greeting and leaps around his father, snapping and nuzzling at Tihamner’s jaw, until Tihamner bends his dignity enough to play with the cub, chasing him through the nettles. The Beast smiles, watching them, and I know he is thinking of the day he will play with his cubs the same way.

How it must have hurt him to see my dream. To see the injury that could come to his daughter, at the hands of his son.

I step close to his side, and when he puts his arm around me, press myself against him. “I am with you always,” I say softly. “No matter what you decide. I know the Elemental sees few scenarios in which we have a future together, but I know you will find those chances, no matter how slim they may be.”

“You do, huh?” he asks, but his tone his light, and he’s smiling as he looks down at me.

“She doesn’t know you like I do. You are a man who defies all odds.”

“Feelin’ like they’re stacked against me at the moment.”

“Then perhaps the Elemental can be forgiven for nudging them in your favor?”

He blows out a long breath. “Maybe. But I don’t like the way she’s fuckin’ with our lives.”

“No, nor I.”

We follow the lupinarus as their chase leads out of the nettles and through the beds of orchidos towards my rose garden. I have no fear that they will do damage to my roses, even if their play turns rough. Tihamner was the guardian of the garden long before it came into my care. He will do nothing to injure it, nor will he allow any harm to come to it. That thought lightens my fears for my garden, should it become the Furyans’ prison.

“So, you had some more names,” the Beast says as we stroll, and I know he seeks to divert me from the misery and doubt of the last few hours.

“I do. Some are Daixian. I don’t know if that matters—?”

“Nope, long as they fit.”

I tilt my head so I can look up at him. What does he mean by fit? Has seeing our daughter in my dream somehow influenced his view of what her name should be? “Um, well, I thought the Daixian word for dawn, Essyen?”

A high grunt. No, he doesn’t think that fits.

I try a harder-edged name. “Mair?”

“I knew a Maur once,” he says. “Tried to kill me.”

Not that one, then. “Nalina?”

“No.”

“Granessa?”

“What kinda name’s that?”

“It’s Daixian for fruitful. Abundant.”

“Forget the Daixian names. Nothin’s as pretty as yours. Try somethin’ else.”

I fall back on a name that was common among the Feletis. “Mariel?”

“No.”

“I think Mariel’s a lovely name. You don’t think it fits?”

“I hate it.”

Now he’s just teasing me. “Riddick,” I say, letting a little exasperation tinge my tone. “What are we going to call the baby?”

“Baby.”

I elbow him in the ribs and he chuckles.


	14. Chapter 14

We settle onto a bench in the rose arbor, some distance from where the Elemental delivered her grim prediction, since I do not want to be reminded of that. The Beast lies with his head in my lap – what is left of it, since his claims notwithstanding, my belly is enormous – while I peel a pile of rowela fruits we’ve collected and feed them to him segment by blood-red segment. He insists I eat one segment to his two, which is no hardship since I like the fruit’s taste and Chef’s pleasant rolls have stimulated my appetite. The clean, citrusy scent of the rowela cuts through the heavy musk of the peach Caprunes that climb over the arbor.

Ctyren lies panting at my feet, while his sire sits sphinxlike a few feet away. The Bird pecks at the thick purple grass carpeting the ground between them. With every peck, the Bird edges a little closer to Tihamner, curious but wary of the big lupinarus.

The Beast is speculating how close the Bird will get before Tihamner takes a snap when a portable lens the Beast wears on his belt flickers. 

“Go,” he says, lifting the lens to his eye-level on its long strap.

“One of the Furyans has surrendered, Lord Riddick,” Daray says. “She claims she wishes to meet with you to negotiate the surrender of the rest.”

“Found ‘em yet?”

“No, but Lord Vaako saw this one emerge from a cave system too deep for our scanners. He believes the rest are hiding below.”

“Good. Bring her in. Keep the rest of ‘em pinned down. “

“Yes, Lord Riddick.”

“Give me a five minute warning before she lands. I’ll meet her in the hangar.”

“Yes, Lord Riddick.”

The Beast brushes his fingers across the lens to blank it and drops it back onto his belt. “Wanna take bets on who it is?”

“Surely Shirah would have brought her Guardian, and Daray would have mentioned it.”

“Yeah.”

“Evon? She seemed quite fierce.”

“Yeah, she does. I figure Hobbi. She’s expendable.”

“The Elder?”

“Yeah. They don’t need her to survive an’ they figure I won’t kill her because she’s old.”

I stroke his brow with my pinkie finger before offering him another rowela segment. “Would you kill her?”

“Kill anyone to protect you,” he growls.

I try another tact. “If she offers their surrender without more, will you accept?”

“Yeah, for now. You know I’m gonna have to kill Shirah sooner or later.”

I smooth my fingers over his brow. “Is that the only possibility?”

“It’s what I know best.” His brow furrows under my fingers. “You gonna tell me ‘no’?”

“No. I know you will do what you must, to survive and keep those you care for alive. I think you always have. But I hope you might find another way.”

“I’ll look,” he grumbles. “That’s all I’m promisin’, Liaden.”

More than I could hope for. “Thank you, my love.”

“Used to be, people had a reason to fear me,” he grumbles.

I smile down at him. “Wouldn’t you rather they had reason to love you?”

“Only person I care about lovin’ me is you.”

“Vaako loves you,” I tease gently.

“Not funny, Liaden.”

I giggle and offer him another rowela segment.

When Daray signals again, we make our way down through Zibon to the hangar. I expect the Beast to leave me in the garden, or send me to our quarters, but he does neither. He keeps me by his side, and I am reminded of those sweet days of travel, when we were rarely apart for more than a few minutes, or by more than a few meters. I have let my garden separate us, at a time when he has needed me the most.

A squad of legionnaires waits in the hangar, surrounding a stooped, scarred woman in patchwork robes. The Beast was right, it is Hobbi the Elder who has offered herself on behalf of her people. Not Shirah.

The Beast surprises me by bowing to the Furyan and I curtsey to show her the same courtesy. Hobbi inclines her head gravely and offers the Beast her staff, from which a strip of pale cloth flutters.

“You keep it.” The Beast waves the peace-offering away. “I get it. You surrender. No one’ll hurt you as long as we’re negotiatin’. That’s all I can promise.”

“That’s enough,” Hobbi says.

“C’mon. Let’s go somewhere you can sit down.” He leads us back to the lifts, and surprises me again by taking the elder Furyan up to my solarium. There is always hot water in the percolator, so once we are seated, I begin making tea. I offer the Tray of Leaves to Hobbi, wait while she sniffs at several dishes before choosing Mandorecki Gold. The Beast choses his new favorite, the mix of native belk leaves and calendula, which I select for myself as well. I hand them their cups once the tea has brewed and sit back on a couch facing the exterior lens. The Beast pats the couch next to him, so I shift to sit by his side. He puts his arm around me and tucks me tight against him.

“So I figure you heard Aereon’s prophesy,” the Beast says to Hobbi.

She shakes her head. “The Air Elemental warned us that if we were here when you returned, you would kill us all. But she did not say why.”

“She’s predicted that my daughter’ll die at the hands of Shirah’s son.” The Beast nods at my belly. “Best way to make sure that doesn’t happen is if you’re all dead.”

Hobbi nods, as though this were a rational response. But perhaps, to a Furyan, it is. “Is it pointless to beg for our lives?”

“You don’t need to beg. You need to control Shirah. If she doesn’t call the Hunt, I figure none of this happens.”

Hobbi hunches over her teacup. “Imposing your will on another is always difficult, and imposing your will on Shirah more difficult than most.”

“Then I just kill her an’ the rest of you can go your merry way,” the Beast says roughly. “Long as you don’t cross paths with any of us again.”

“I would save my granddaughter’s life, if I can.”

“Anythin’ prevent her from callin’ the Hunt?”

Hobbi lifts a thin shoulder under her robes. “Incapacity. Illness. Other than that, I don’t know.”

“Incapacity, like if she was unconscious,” the Beast says, and I can feel him considering the possibilities. “Or she’d have to be pretty sick.”

Or sterile. I let the thought ring in my mind so the Beast can hear it. I feel him flinch, but he says to Hobbi, “We could induce some sickness. Keep her under. Or give her somethin’ that would prevent her from havin’ a kid. That would end this.” 

Hobbi bows her head over her tea. “Do you have any idea what a monster you sound?”

“I’ve been called worse,” the Beast growls. “So we’re clear, there’s nothin’ I won’t do to protect Liaden and the baby. Start from that point and we’ll finish this faster.”

Hobbi glances at me, but there is no hatred in her unscarred eye. Just a deep sadness. “You might not be the Furyor,” she says to the Beast. “You’d be denying Shirah everything you seek to protect. A future. Family. Happiness. Are you really so cruel?”

“Don’t doubt it. You want to save your granddaughter’s life? Help me figure out a way to stop the Hunt, an’ I mean permanently.” 

“I will need to think on it,” Hobbi says.

“The Elemental said every minute mattered,” I offer. “I cannot think why, but she was most insistent.”

Hobbi shrugs. “Shirah is ovulating now. As you can, no doubt, smell.” She nods at the Beast.

I look at him in surprise. Can he smell Shirah’s fertility? He doesn’t let anything show on his face and his mind is closed to me, so I cannot tell. 

“How much longer?” I ask.

“A day. Two at most,” Hobbi says.

“Then these are your choices, to think on,” the Beast growls. “Choice one, I kill you all. Today. Choice two, you bring your people to Zibon and you stay where I put you. Shirah don’t call the Hunt and once she’s done stinkin’ like three-day old meat, I’ll let you out. Shirah stays, though, until we figure out somethin’ permanent. I’m not goin’ through this again whenever she feels frisky.”

“That is no real choice,” Hobbi objects.

“You come up with another one, you tell me. But make it quick. Elemental says every minute matters. I’m inclined to believe her.”

We retire a few steps to the great lens, to give the elder Furyan space to think. The Beast turns me and draws my back against his chest; we stand at a right angle to the lens, so I can enjoy the view over the wet shingle and sea, while he keeps an eye on Hobbi. He nuzzles my hair. “Mmm. You still smell like the ocean.”

“I’ve not yet had a chance to bathe. Riddick, can you actually smell Shirah’s cycle?”

He grunts, a warm breath in my hair. “I can smell somethin’. Like meat left in the sun too long.”

“Elkie said she could smell what Shirah was putting out. Do you think that’s what she meant?”

“Probably. Smell may not affect Elkie like it does the rest of us, but that don’t mean she can’t smell it. Maybe it bothers her more ‘cause they ain’t her pheromones. She mentioned it t’you before I noticed it. I only began smellin’ it the day before we went to the beach.”

“And the smell is unpleasant to you?”

“Yeah. Maybe ‘causa you. Greer an’ Booth are drawn to it like dogs. D’you notice?”

I didn’t. I’ve been giving both of them a wide berth and I had not noticed their interactions with Shirah. 

“Cawl an’ Jarone didn’t seem affected. Hardy’s been makin’ himself scarce, so I don’t know about him.”

“He is very skittish,” I remark.

“Yeah. I’m not sure what the story is there, but I’m pretty sure his feet are more fucked up than mine were, before you started messin’ with them.”

I bump my head against his collarbone. When he first came to me, his feet were more damaged than anything I had ever seen. Too much time in chains and someone else’s boots, he told me. I don’t know if Hardy has spent too much time in chains and someone else’s boots, but he has suffered some great trauma to make him flinch at a gesture as innocuous as me laying a napkin in his lap. The Beast’s feet have responded well to my ministrations – almost as well as his heart. He has all his toenails again, and the terrible frostbite healed without permanent damage. He still has a few scars around his ankles from the years spent in chains – much like the scars he carries on his heart – but they are supple and no longer hamper his movement. I number both improvements among my major triumphs.

“I would try to help Hardy, if you allow it,” I say.

“Sure. ‘Long as all you touch is his feet.”

I say nothing of the prohibition he has placed on others touching me, although I know we will have to address it at some point. Today is not the day. 

“Riddick,” Hobbi says, drawing us back to her. The Beast makes no move to rejoin her on the couches, just turns so we’re facing her. She squints a little at the midday glare silhouetting us. The Beast does not polarize the lens behind us for her comfort, and I sense there is a point to his lack of hospitality, so I cross my arms over his where he has wrapped them around my middle, over the bulge of my stomach, and do not touch the lens. 

“You know we cannot stand against you,” she says. “We can hide from you for some time, long enough for Shirah to call the Hunt—”

“So we’re clear,” the Beast interrupts. “I got no need to ferret you out. We can see your cave systems on our scanners. The tech that leveled your cities? We brought more’n enough to turn every cave on this planet into a sinkhole. Anythin’ and anyone in there’ll be buried alive. You think I won’t do it? Think again.”

Hobbi clutches her teacup with shaking, scarred hands. “I had not realized.”

“So maybe you wanna reconsider what you were gonna say.”

“No, no. It is only the terms of our surrender that I sought to negotiate. Not the fact of it.”

“I don’t negotiate,” the Beast says.

“Yes, I see that now. We will take the second choice, of course. We will control Shirah. She will not call the Hunt. I would beg you not to incapacitate or sterilize her until we can find another solution, but that discussion can wait for another day.”

“Your people need to be here and locked down by nightfall. You got a way to signal them?”

Hobbi nods. 

“Then do it.” The Beast lifts the portable lens on his belt and signals his commanders. “Furyans are comin’ in. Bring all the sweep teams back. Full assembly in Hangar Two at sixteen-hundred.”

“Yes, Lord Riddick,” his commanders voices chorus out of the lens before he drops it back to hang on his belt.

“Rict an’ Faz’ll show you where you’re goin’,” the Beast says to Hobbi. Two legionnaires followed us up and waited outside my solarium. I did not recognize Faz in his full armor, even after he spent the day with me in my garden. Does the Beast know every legionnaire so intimately? 

“I will accompany her,” Nazya, my Handmaiden, says, rising from a corner of the solarium. The Beast does not start at her sudden appearance, so he must have been aware of her, but I neither saw nor heard her. If I did not know better, I would swear she was a Wraith.

“Good. Liaden and I got another date with Chef. Then we’re gonna be . . . indisposed until sixteen hundred.”

“Yes, Lord Riddick.” Nazya dips a deep curtsey, far deeper than her usual obeisance to the Beast. It is not, I sense, a return to the stiff formality of Zhylaw’s reign, but rather to impress on the Furyan the loyalty of the Necromongers to their Lord Marshal.

 

The Beast insists that we return to the galley for more food, even though I protest that I have eaten more than enough. Chef serves me another of the soft steamed rolls to start, and I finally recognize their gentle dominant note as coconut. While I’m eating my roll, a platter of steamed and fried kelp, skewers of Antyon meat in a sour-sweet sauce and a salad of the rock-pool plants, grilled and arranged like flowers, arrives in front of us.

“Do you think he’s conjuring all this food? Bringing it back across the Threshold somehow?” I ask the Beast.

The Beast’s lip’s twitch as he takes a skewer. “Must be. We didn’t bring halfa this.”

“He’s done nothing but gather ingredients and cook since we landed,” the assistant who delivered the platter says. “I don’t think he’s slept at all. He’s so excited about what he calls ‘Furya’s Bounty,’ he may never sleep again.”

I smile at the assistant. “Please remind Chef that we need not sample all of Furya’s Bounty at once. And that he needs his sleep.”

The assistant nods ruefully before he turns to go. I surmise that Chef has driven his assistants as hard as he has driven himself.

“Chef ain’t the only one who needs sleep,” the Beast says to me. “After this, we’re going to bed.”

“Lying prone after a meal is bad for the digestion,” I remark, knowing he does not mean that we’d be going to bed to sleep.

“Then we’ll have to do it sittin’ up.”

I shake my head at him, but cannot prevent my grin. My delight in spending time with him again is equaled only by my delight in his reawakened ardor.

We eat in companionable silence. He feeds himself, so I can eat, too, and although it is for the Beast’s benefit that I asked Chef to switch to native foods, I enjoy them, too. The grilled sea-flowers, in particular, are delicious, with a surprising malty sweetness.

As we’re finishing the meal with a goblet of rowela nectar, Nazya enters the galley, trailed by Caden. My Handmaiden carries a bundle of cloth over one arm, and although there is a some Necromonger black in the bundle, the rest of the folds like flower-petals: cream and peach, pale blue, green fresh as grass and a rose-gold as luminous as Furya’s dawn. 

“Mistress,” she says, bowing to me, and then to the Beast, “Lord Riddick.”

The Beast acknowledges my Handmaiden with a grunt, and I with a smile.

“The legionnaires have taken the Furyan woman to retrieve the rest of her people. They will return no later than fifteen-thirty. The Master Weaver bids me tell you that the beds will be ready by eighteen-hundred, and she has made these for you.” Nayza runs her hand over the bundle of cloth. “I will place them in your chamber. She says Lady Liaden’s gown will be ready as you requested.”

I lift an eyebrow at the Beast. “I already have more clothing than I can wear.”

The Beast’s mouth tightens, then relaxes. “We’ll talk about it later.”

I bow my head. Although I am wary of his interest in my clothing, if it means much to him, I will not question his aims.

“Lady Liaden, Tirea also said, if you’re not too tired, she and Sanjula and a few others are gathering tonight an hour before curfew. She had asked for your permission to gather in your garden, but as the Furyans are to be kept there, I thought perhaps your solarium instead?”

“Yes, please offer her my solarium. What is the gathering for?”

Nazya looks very uncomfortable and steps closer to the table to whisper, “I believe they intend to dance.”

Dance? How . . . novel. Necromongers do not dance. Nor do Feleti servants. I have not danced since my handfasting to Hanuel when I was a child. I find myself anticipating the dancing with relish. Of course, dancing with my heavy belly may be more of a trial than a joy. But I would still like to try. “Please tell Tirea I look forward to it.”

Nazya nods, still looking dubious. She signals Caden after her as she takes her leave. Watching her retreat, I ask the Beast, “You don’t mind if we dance, do you?”

“Nope. I might even join you some time. I used to like dancin’.”

I lean into his shoulder. “I would love to dance with you.”

“Guess I’d better practice, then. C’mon,” the Beast says, taking my hand. “Time for bed.”

 

Although I should find it odd to retire in the early afternoon, my body has no qualms about napping, particularly after an hour of the Beast’s energetic lovemaking. I curl up in his arms. My body hums with sweet satiation. His deep contentment blankets my mind. I slip easily into sleep and almost immediately begin to dream.

Thankfully, these are not the hard-edged, prophetic dreams of this morning. These are pleasant memories of my birth family on Tarenge. Holding my baby sister, Tatiana. She was born with a cap of black curls that fell out after a few weeks, leaving her as bald as an egg for over a year. My parents said it was a mark of Xia’s favor. I dream of rocking her and stroking her bald little head, smoother and softer even than the Beast’s. Hunting with my mother. Learning to step exactly where she stepped. Listening to her soft, even breathing echoing off the snow-cloaked trees as I followed her along the trails that crisscrossed our lands. I dream of working beside her as she set snares. I feel her hands on mine as she showed me how to hold the bow my father made for me. The brush of her hair, as long as mine is now, as it blew across my cheek.

I wake with the lingering sense of skin. My mother’s. My sister’s. The Beast’s. And for the first time, I wake with a sense of anticipation of my daughter’s arrival, rather than dread.

The Beast grunts and adjusts me against his chest, so my cheek is resting in the hollow of his shoulder and I can listen to the deep, slow beat of his heart. “I’m lookin’ forward to it, too.”

“Have you slept at all, my love?”

“Yeah. Just woke up when you did.” He strokes his hand across my head, feathering through my hair. “I like those dreams of your mother.”

I know he does not remember his parents at all. I found images of them in the original Colony records. He has his mother’s full mouth, and his father’s strong jaw. He has not asked me to see the images, although he may have seen them in my mind. Since he has no memories of them, perhaps their faces have no meaning for him.

“Would you object to me teaching our daughter the things my mother taught me? I would like to pass on her knowledge.”

“Teach her everythin’ you know.” He chuckles. “I’ll try ‘n’ teach her a thing or two, too.”

I rub my cheek against his warm skin. “You will be her greatest teacher.”

“Have to be, since we don’t have a school, or any teachers.”

“Or any students,” I point out. “Until our daughter is born.”

The Beast grunts. “She won’t be the only one. You watch. Old Man’s already told me he’s been asked about reversin’ the procedure you Necros did to yourselves. He’ll figure out a way. Few years, we’ll be knee-deep in nippers. I figure Tirea and Sirel are already working on it, even though they’re keepin’ quiet.”

I remember Tirea’s reaction to my pregnancy. “I think you’re right.”

“Mmm.” The Beast turns his face into my hair, takes a deep breath and stretches against me. “You ready to get up?”

If he wanted more sleep, he would have phrased the question differently. “Yes, if you are.” 

“Yeah.” He runs his warm hand through my hair and down my back. “Lot to be said for this nappin’ thing, though. No nightmares an’ I feel like I’ve actually slept.”

I turn my head so I can kiss his shoulder. “How long have you had trouble sleeping?”

He grunts and for a moment, I think he will not answer me. Finally, he says, “Since Descent. Night before was the last night I slept through.”

Descent was eight days ago. No wonder he’s been so miserable. Why was I so slow to notice the disruption in his sleeping patterns? 

“And the Furyan fare? How does it sit on your stomach?”

“Yeah, it’s good. Everythin’ Chef makes is good, you know that.”

Everything Chef makes tastes good, but not everything is easily digested, as my own stomach amply attests. But what matters is that he savors food again. I need not ask whether his other appetites have returned. My body is pleasantly sore from his renewed desire. 

When we rise, the Beast follows me into my dressing chamber and inspects the new clothes Nazya has hung in my wardrobe. He selects the rose-gold gown and drapes it over my chair, then stands behind me as I brush out my hair. He runs his fingers through the long, straight strands, somewhat defeating the purpose of the brushing, although I do not object to his touch.

“Want you to wear it up tonight,” he says.

“The _di’an_ marks will be visible,” I say, reminding him of the three, deep red marks I carry across my back and shoulders, the sign of Xia’s favor for killing in the Beast’s defense. I have worn my hair down since that terrible night, so that the Necromongers would not know I have returned to my birth faith. That he wants me to show the marks off tonight makes me wonder at his deep aims.

“Yeah, I know.” He brushes my hair to the side, leans in and kisses one of the marks. It is long healed, but his touch on it sends a shiver through me. “When you’re done, come find me. I need to put some armor on.”

“Yes, my love.” 

I dress quickly after he leaves. The gown he has selected is beautiful, a sleeveless rose-red overdress, with a gold under-layer revealed at neck and hem. The bodice is very low-cut, crossing where the skirt gathers under my breasts, with the golden fabric filling the gap for modesty. Although no part of my cleavage shows, my entire Collar is bared, and I suspect that is why the Beast chose this gown. Not because of its beauty, or the way the rose hue brings further color to my sun-touched cheeks, but so that all will see my Collar and know that I still stand at my Lord Marshal’s right hand.

I braid my hair simply, coil it atop my head and fix it with the deathshead pins and the Rift clasp. Turning so I can see my back in my mirror, I see that the gown’s low drape bares not just the two _di’an_ marks that spread across my shoulders like wings, but also the edge of the lower mark. Anyone who knows what the marks are will know that I killed three men, adversaries worthy of being tribute to Xia.

Still wondering at the Beast’s designs, I slip on the golden sandals that Tirea has made to accompany the dress and hurry to join the Beast.


	15. Chapter 15

He has not put on all of the hugely heavy, and hugely imposing, ceremonial Armor, but the gorget, pauldron, vambraces and gauntlets that he has had me put on him are enough to draw stares from the legionnaires as we enter the hangar. He carries a war axe in one hand. A bandolier of blades crosses his chest, and two of the wicked recurved blades that are his weapon of choice ride his hips. There can be no mistaking his aspect, and none of the small group of Furyans who stand, surrounded by legionnaires, miss his message. Most bow their heads. Only Shirah and Callum, the elders Hobbi and Puck, Elkie, standing some distance from the rest, and Cawl meet his eye. 

I see the fear in Shirah’s.

The Beast stops ten meters from the Furyans. He waits while I move to stand at his right hand; his other commanders flank us. The rows of legionnaires pivot smoothly, and all-but silently, to face the Beast. I do not try to count them, but I know that over seven hundred legionnaires accompanied us to Furya, and it looks like every one of them is arrayed around us.

“Necromongers destroyed this planet once,” the Beast says, his deep voice ringing in the silence. “Provoke me, an’ we’ll do it again.” 

His next words are unmistakably directed at Shirah. “I told you I wasn’t the Furyor. Told you exactly where things stood. You wouldn’t listen. So now we zero the clock. This is _my_ world. The Necromongers’ world. There’ll be no Hunt. There’ll be no nothin’. Any of you want to leave, Elkie’ll take you. Everyone else, stays as my prisoner until I decide different. Any of you don’t like it, step up now. It’ll be just you an’ me. No one’ll interfere.”

No one steps forward, although I can see in the bunching of his broad shoulders that the Guardian’s Guardian badly wants to. But doing so would leave the woman he protects defenseless. 

The Beast sees it, too. “She don’t need a guardian,” he says to Callum. “Nothin’s gonna happen to her, not where she’s goin’. You can join us, or you can go with Elkie. Those’re your choices.”

Anguish crosses Callum’s face before he controls himself. “I will join you.”

I have no illusions that the Furyan will abandon his old loyalties so easily. Neither does the Beast. He nods to Daray. “He goes out to patrol the western shock wall.”

“Yes, Lord Marshal,” Daray says instantly. Vaako may have wondered why the Beast changed his mind about killing the Furyans. Daray and Sirel may have seen the softer, more playful side of the Beast during our day at the beach. But none of them gainsay the Beast when he is the Lord Marshal of the Necromongers. Their obedience is immediate and without question.

It saddens me to see this reversion to the Necromonger Way, even though I appreciate its necessity.

The Beast nods at the ranks of legionnaires that flank the Furyans. “Take ‘em.”

The legionnaires turn sharply, as one, and lead the thirty Furyans past us, toward the corridors that will take them to their prison in my garden. Shirah stares at the Beast as she passes. The rage in those lioness eyes is almost as strong as the fear, and the Beast’s free hand drifts to the hilt of one of the blades at his waist. But she passes without incident, and the Beast relaxes. We watch until the last of the Furyans, the old priest, is marched away, weeping silently. The Beast turns to the four who remain: Elkie, Cawl and the two Furyan males, Jarone and Hardy, who did not meet his eyes before. They do not do so now.

“Elkie’s offered to take any of you as far as Thelriss system,” the Beast says.

Silent Hardy surprises me by lifting his head and speaking. “I won’t fight you. Go if you make me, but I’ll sign up if that’s what it takes to stay.” He glances at me. “Kinda like it here.”

I smile hesitantly at him, not wanting to undermine the Beast, but pleased that my efforts to make the Furyans feel welcome have been successful.

“I like it here, too,” Elkie says, hooking her thumbs in her gun belt and rocking back on her heels. I notice her belt is empty. “I’ll do a run to Thelriss if anyone wants to go, but then I’d like to come back. You want to stick me in Liaden’s garden until you get Shirah squared away, be my guest. Worst places to spend time. ‘Least I know the food’ll be good.”

The Beast grunts and turns his silver stare to the two who haven’t spoken, Cawl and Jarone. 

Jarone steps forward and holds up his empty hands. Empty, but stained with color, and I recognize the mystery artist who has been drawing my garden on Zibon’s walls. “I’m not going to fight you, either. But I’d like to talk to you, in private.”

The Beast nods. “Cawl?”

“I don’t know what I hate more about this, boy. That twit stinkin’ up the place and makin’ us all crazy, or you thinkin’ you can throw me in a cage,” the older Furyan growls.

“Door’s right there,” the Beast says, nodding at the open hangar door. “You got your own ship, or you can hitch a ride with Elkie, anyway you want to go, but get gone.” 

Cawl’s dark eyes shift to me. “This about you, girl?”

“Yes, grandfather,” I answer. 

“Fuckin’ Daixian termagant,” Cawl says, but his tone holds no censure. “I want a day to think about it. I don’t sign with anyone, particularly you death-loving fucks, but I like it here, too, and no one’s throwing me out just because that bitch has gone into heat.”

The Beast feeds an image into my mind, of Cawl and Avalyn walking down the black-sand beach, side-by-side. Not touching, but so close a breath could barely pass between them. He doesn’t think Cawl’s reasoning has anything to do with the fierce Furyan desire for freedom.

“Here, same time tomorrow,” the Beast says. “You can tell me what you decide. In the meantime, stay outta Liaden’s garden. We clear?”

Cawl nods.

The Beast sweeps his gaze over the assembled legionnaires. He is not wearing his goggles and the hangar’s lights must pain his sensitive eyes, but he gives no sign of discomfort. He wants them to see his eyes. To see the determination and resolve there.

“This is our world now,” he says, lifting his voice so every legionnaire can hear him. “If you’re not with us, you’re against us, and anyone who’s against us, dies. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Lord Marshal!” Their collective response shakes the hangar and leaves my ears ringing.

“Dismissed,” the Beast says. A few of the legionnaires relax into parade rest, but none of them leave.

The Beast beckons to Jarone and turns on his heel to go.

“I want my same seat at dinner, boy,” Cawl calls after him.

“Sit wherever the fuck you want, old man,” the Beast growls over his shoulder. “I am. Liaden, c’mon.”

With a bow to Elkie, Cawl and Hardy, I follow my Lord Marshal.

He leads us through the silent, unmoving ranks of legionnaires. As we pass out of the hangar, a murmur of conversation begins, but it is no more than a murmur, and I cannot tell if they discuss the fate of the Furyans, or the Beast’s uncompromising manifesto, or the _di’an_ marks on my back. 

The Beast turns down a short corridor, turns again, and leads us into a storage room. Within, he flicks the door shut and leans against it, holding his arm out to me. I move to stand at his side.

“Whaddo you got to say?” he asks Jarone.

The colorfully tattooed Furyan stands in the small clear space left by storage racks and boxes, his head down. He takes several breaths before he lifts his head and speaks.

“I’m no threat to you. To any of you.” Jarone nods at me. “I can . . . show you. But it’s not a sight for your lady.”

“Liaden, close your eyes.” The Beast’s hand sinks into my hair and turns my face into his shoulder. I dutifully close my eyes, confident that if it is important, he will share it with me later. I hear a metallic pop and a whisper of cloth. The Beast’s hand in my hair twitches, but otherwise he gives no sign of what he’s seen. “Okay,” he says slowly.

Over the sound of cloth being pulled up over skin, Jarone says, “I couldn’t be Furyor if I wanted to be. And I don’t. You want me to sign with you in order to stay, I will, but I’m not a soldier.”

“Not all Necros are soldiers,” the Beast says slowly, and I can tell he’s considering how to deal with whatever Jarone has shown him. “Most of ‘em are movin’ away from the Faith already. If it’d violate some deeply held belief you got—”

“It wouldn’t. I heard you in there. ‘If you’re not with us, you’re against us.’ I’d rather be part of you, even if it means getting those things drilled into my neck.”

I feel the Beast shake his head. He hasn’t released his hold on me, and I begin to wonder if that is for my benefit, or his. “There won’t be any more Purification. Not for you, not for anyone.”

“So what’re you asking? You want me to wear start wearing black?”

The Beast snorts. “I’ll come up with somethin’. Necros love ceremonies. You got any objection if I appoint you court painter or somethin’?”

“None at all. Does the appointment come with pay?”

“Room an’ board, just like everyone else.”

“Best offer I’ve had. You’ll be overrun before long. You know that, right?”

The Beast chuckles. “I got my own ways of weedin’ ‘em out.”

“Sticking them in your lady’s rose garden? That’s not going to weed anyone out. They’ll be breaking down your door.”

“Let ‘em try. We done?”

“Yes. I’d like to ask a favor, but it can wait for another time.”

“Ask.”

“I’d like your lady to sit for me. For a portrait.”

I choke against the Beast’s shoulder. Now? He wants to paint me now, when I’m huge and ungainly?

The Beast hums low in his throat. “Yeah, we’ll have to think about that. Tell you tomorrow.” Still holding me against him, he sidesteps and the door slides open behind him.

I don’t hear Jarone leave – he’s as silent as any of the Furyans – but I feel his absence in the surcease of tension in the room. “Can I open my eyes?” I ask.

The Beast cups the back of my head, lifts my face to his and presses his forehead hard against mine. “Wish I’d closed mine,” he says.

“What was it?” I ask, looking up into his pinched face.

Between his teeth, he forces out, “Castrated. Looked like it was done with fuckin’ teeth.”

“Sweet Xia.”

“I don’t want you to see it, so don’t go pokin’ around in my head. Fuck, I don’t want to see anythin’ like that again.”

He knows I only have as much access to his mind as he gives me. That he feels the need to warn me, gives me an idea of how terrible he found the sight. I reach up and smooth my hands over his head. “I’m sorry, my love.”

“Yeah.” He lifts his head from mine so he can rub his hand over his face. “I can’t eat after that. You want to take a walk? Just you and me.”

“I would love that.”

 

We walk along the Anzoa, along a broad pathway of mud, thrown up by Descent, which has baked in Furya’s heat to the consistency of concrete. The footsteps of my many helpers have trampled any reeds and grasses seeking to rise from the mud, and the pathway is almost as smooth as if it had been laid. It slopes gently down into the green water of the river, which glimmers silver and gold in the evening light.

The Beast holds my arm, and scans the path with his searching silver gaze, alert for any small threat, even small branches that he guides me around. Once he told me where we would be walking, we returned to our chambers so that he could shed his armor and I could change into boots. Although he has discarded his war axe, he still carries a recurved blade on each hip. I wear Hannelore in a calf-sheath. I wonder, sadly, if we will ever be able to walk in my garden unarmed. 

As we walk, I observe as much as I can of the garden’s progress. My helpers have been industrious in my absence, and the taruut fields already stretch for a kilometer on either side of the river. The seedlings seem to be taking root well in Furya’s rich, black soil. They have already doubled in size, and many bear the silky tassels that signal the beginning of the plant’s fruiting cycle. There will be small taruut cobs to eat soon, their light starch a herald for the mature fruit’s bready richness. Over the waving taruut tassels, I can see the beginnings of one of the arbors I designed, framing the dramatic backdrop of cliff and sky. A pale yellow stand of sweetip seedlings sways next to arbor, their sinuous motion a contrast to the arbor’s firm, metal lines.

I take this in, but offer no comment to the Beast, who seems deep in his own thoughts. We come to the tumbled boulders where we sat to watch the sunset just a few nights ago. The Beast helps me climb them. He finds a comfortable spot and hands me down into it. Then he sits behind me, framing my body with his. He wraps his arms around me, rubs his face in my hair and sighs deeply.

“Can you see the green of the river?” I ask softly, broaching an entirely neutral subject that he can take in any direction he wishes.

“No. I can see the light on the water, though. Pretty.”

“I haven’t sampled the river water. Is it sweet like the rain?”

“No, it’s fresh, though. Comes down from the mountains. It’s what’s goin’ into the Hab’s systems.”

“I thought we were pumping water from underground?” I ask, remembering the plans the Beast discussed for so many hours with his commanders before we left the Armada.

“Yeah, we can. Spindle’s bored all the way down into the aquifer. But we don’t need to yet. Long as the river stays at this level, we got all the fresh water we need.” He strokes his hand over my hair. “Liaden, take this out. Can’t get my hands into it.”

I undo my coif and shake my hair out. The Beast sinks his hand into it, rubs the kinks from the braid between his fingers and rumbles his deep, pleased rumble. I lean back against him and enjoy the simple pleasure of being with my love and lord, while he strokes my hair.

“I’m not gonna stick Elkie or Cawl in a cage,” the Beast says after a long, peaceful silence. “I should, but I won’t.”

“Elkie would endure it,” I say. “Probably cheerfully. But I think it would alienate her at some deep level. Cawl would break. I know he seems strong, but there’s something so fragile about him.” About all of the returned Furyans. 

“Yeah, I know what you mean.” He’s silent for a moment, then points at the river, where there’s a silver dance of ripples on the water. “That’s those little fish Chef fed us earlier. Tasty.”

“Are they jumping for insects?”

“Yeah, I think so. River’s not as buggy as the trees, but still plenty for the fish to jump at. We’ll go in before they start bitin’.”

“Do you think they’re edible?”

“The fish?” I can hear the grin in his voice.

I elbow him. “The insects.”

“Mmm, I’ve eaten bugs before. Nothin’ to get excited about.”

“Riddick,” I ask softly. “Will you tell me about it?”

“Yeah.” Haltingly, as though dredging up each word from some deep place, he tells me of his time on a planet with no name, only a designation, GJ176b. A blasted, yellow world with acid seas. He spent two years there in a floating prison, scavenging the beetles and crawling insects that infested its lowest reaches, trying to keep up his strength against the daily assaults by guards and fellow inmates. He feeds me a memory, of chewing something with too many legs that was as sour as bile on his tongue. It burned all the way down to his empty stomach.

My own stomach roils in response.

I reach back and curl my hand around his where it rests at the nape of my neck. “Enough, my love.”

He leans against me, breathing into my hair. “There’s nothin’ there I want to remember, Liaden.”

“I understand.” And I do. Much better now. Whatever others thought and said of him, he remembers only the daily battle for survival. “I’m sorry I asked you about it. I won’t again.”

He grunts. “I’m not hidin’ things from you.”

“I realize that now.”

He reaches around to wrap his arms around me. Nuzzles the nape of my neck. “This, right now. This is the best I’ve ever had it.”

Given his recent misery, that statement makes me want to weep. “This is your home. Your world. You have won it, against impossible odds, and you deserve to be happy here.” 

“Seems like maybe I haven’t won it after all.”

“You have. Never doubt it. No one who stood in that hangar doubts it. Shirah said you could be Lord of Furya, but what she fails to realize is that you already are.”

He snorts. “What does that make you?”

“Me? I’m your concubine. First. Last. And always.”

“Lady of Furya.”

“If you wish. My title is not the one that matters.”

“Yeah, it does,” he grunts. “Matters to me.”

“Your legionnaires already call me Lady. They’re very well-mannered, by the way. As well as well-trained—” 

“Don’t try to side-track me.”

Was I? I didn’t do so deliberately. “I’m sorry, my love, what point were you making?”

“It ain’t enough. Concubine. If you were my wife, Shirah wouldn’t be harpin’ on about this Hunt.”

I very much doubt such an archaic, outmoded institution would stop Shirah, but that is not what he wants to hear at this moment. “I’ve said I’ll gladly marry you.”

“Tomorrow.” 

Tomorrow? “That’s a very short engagement,” I observe.

“Liaden,” he growls.

I rub my cheek against the huge biceps circling my shoulder. “I’m sorry, my love. Of course I will marry you. Tomorrow if you wish. I might even be able to salvage some of my Caprunes for bouquets, before the Furyans vent their rage at their captivity on my garden.”

“They touch so much as a leaf, I’ll kill them.”

I chuckle. “That seems impolitic. But I appreciate your concern for my Caprunes.”

“I want to combine it with the ceremony for Jarone and Hardy. You okay with that?”

“Of course.” Perhaps I shouldn’t be. What girl dreams of sharing her wedding day with a castrate and a half-feral Furyan? But I have never dreamt of a wedding day. By Daixian custom, my handfasting to Hanuel would have ended when I killed my first man, thereby proving my worthiness to be a hunter’s mate. There was no ceremony beyond the kill, and no celebration beyond the wedding night. Even that dream ended when the Necromongers invaded my homeworld. 

“I was thinkin’ blood and blades. That’s somethin’ both Necros and Furyans can understand.”

“That would be appropriate, and appreciated. You don’t intend to share blood with them, do you?”

The Beast chuckles. “Blood brothers? That’s not the worst idea. Why?”

“I beg you have Tomoetu test them first.” I shudder, thinking of what the Furyans’ blood might hold.

“They probably have more to worry about than I do.”

“That I doubt.” Although life was not prized by the Necromongers, neither was illness tolerated. Tomoetu would have tested the new Lord Marshal thoroughly, and cleansed his blood of any disease. “Please, my love?”

“Yeah, I’ll talk to the Old Man about it.” He reaches down and finds my left hand. Cups it in his. “I had Rohne make a pair of rings. You don’t have to wear yours if you don’t want to.”

Rohne the Armorer made my Collar. That alone marked him for my disfavor, although I realize he was only doing his duty. But there is always something cruel about his creations, despite their beauty. Still, we have all come to Furya to start afresh. I did not raise any objection when he applied to accompany us; I should give him the benefit of the doubt. “I look forward to seeing them.”

He turns my hand over in his and rubs his thumb across my palm. “Still don’t give you enough.”

“I’ve told you I want for nothing. Just hold me in your heart and I am content.” 

“I know you want to get back to your garden. It won’t be long, Liaden. Just gimme a coupla days.”

I shake my head. “My place is at your side. Until you feel yourself again. Until whatever you feel trying to change you no longer threatens. There is no deadline on your well-being, my love.”

He pulls me tighter against his chest, deeper into his embrace, and together we watch the lowering sun gild the water and lengthen the plum shadows.


	16. Chapter 16

We eat another meal in the almost-empty galley, after most others have eaten. That the Beast feels the need to eat again tells me how deeply his appetite had waned, and I upbraid myself again for not noticing. The legionnaire Faz joins us and reports, confirming that my garden has been turned into a prison for the Furyans and that Callum has been dispatched to join the patrol at the western shock wall. Cawl brings a trencher to the table as Faz speaks, sets it down across from me and glares at the Beast in silence while he eats. 

The Beast ignores him, neither pointedly nor with rancor, simply giving his attention to his legionnaire.

“Good work,” the Beast says when Faz finishes his report. The legionnaire’s face remains in its stoic set, but I see pleasure light his eyes. “Want you to set a trap. Somethin’ that looks like a backdoor outta Liaden’s garden. No guards, but make sure every inch is monitored. I wanna see if any of ‘em bite.”

“Yes, Lord Marshal. Should it be a fatal snare?” The relish with which Faz asks makes clear his feelings toward the Furyans.

The Beast shakes his head. “Just catch ‘em. It’d need to be a public execution, if any of ‘em take the bait.”

The legionnaire slowly smiles. He salutes and leaves us to Cawl’s glacial glare.

“You sneaky fucker,” Cawl says, once the legionnaire is gone.

“You don’t like the way I do things, you know where the door is,” the Beast responds as he finishes the last of a grilled Antyon steak. 

“Didn’t say I got a problem with the way you do things. You think I like them any better’n I like you?”

The Beast chuckles.

“I heard about you, Riddick,” Cawl continues. “You never signed with anyone but yourself. What the fuck are you doin’ leading this crew?”

The Beast shrugs, then slants a grin at me. “Their women are worth stickin’ around for.”

Cawl grumbles. “I noticed.”

“Sooner or later,” the Beast says. “Everyone’s gotta go home. Lot easier with an army at your back.”

Cawl grunts. “You ever heard of Caesar?”

The Beast nods. “Old Earth.”

“Knifed by his own soldiers.”

“Senator, actually. That’s why I don’t run things by fuckin’ committee.” He glances at me. “Ribald S had a good library.”

Is he letting me glimpse the less painful parts of his past? I smile at him as I sip my tea.

“Point is, they don’t like the way you do things, they’ll take you down, boy. Death’s what they do,” Cawl says.

“Probably why we get along. Don’t pretend you’re worried about my end-game, old man. Focus on the here ‘n’ now. You want to be part of what we’re doin’, stay. All kinds of perks.” The Beast winks at me. “You don’t, go. Best part about leadin’ an army? One person more or less, doesn’t make much difference.”

Cawl shifts his hard brown glare to me. “That person, more or less, would make a big difference.”

The Beast is across the table, with Cawl’s throat in his huge hand, before I even see him move. “Don’t look at Liaden,” he growls into the older Furyan’s face. “Don’t talk to Liaden. She’s mine, an’ the next one of you that so much as fucking glances in her direction’s gonna bleed out messy and slow. We clear?”

Cawl nods slowly, holding the Beast’s sulfuric glare. The Beast releases the older Furyan’s throat and sits back down. I return Hannelore to her sheath, set the table to rights and prepare a fresh cup of tea for my over-protective love.

“I’m not lookin’ or talkin’,” Cawl says after a long silence that cannot be good for anyone’s digestion. “But everyone knows she’s your weakness.” 

The Beast snorts. “You don’t know the first fuckin’ thing about Liaden. She’s stronger than all of you put together.”

I glow at the Beast’s praise and slide a little closer to him on the bench. He puts his arm around me.

“Still not lookin’ or talkin’, but she’s pregnant, and a pregnant woman’s weak,” Cawl says.

“Yeah? Ever tried taking a cub from a hellhound? Give it a try and tell me how it goes. If you can still talk. There’s nothin’ weak about her. Liaden’s got the strongest spine of anyone I’ve ever met.”

His words make my heart incandesce, and the faint blue glimmer of my Collar reflects off the polished table.

“Anyone can be got at, boy. Anyone can be killed,” Cawl growls. “That’s history’s lesson, an’ you shoulda learned it by now.”

“You’re not tellin’ me anythin’ I don’t already know,” the Beast responds, matching Cawl’s tone.

“Then stop steppin’ into the line of fire. Stop throwin’ her into it.”

The Beast sets down his teacup. Pushes his empty trencher away. “Told you, you don’t like the way I do things, there’s the door. C’mon, Liaden.”

He rises and holds out his hand to me. I take his hand and let him help me to my feet. “Farewell, grandfather,” I say softly.

“Termagant,” Cawl mutters, without looking at me. 

 

The Beast elects for a bath rather than a nap when we return to our chamber, and I sense he is trying to cling to as much of our old routine as possible. The routine we established during our long trip to Furya, when we were both so happy.

I am still glowing from his earlier praise, and that glow does not dim, even when he elects to read to me during his bath, rather than make love. He often read to me while we traveled, and I to him. I wonder if this is another point of connection to that untroubled time.

Neither of us has read from _Commentarii de Bello Gallico_ , however. And when I glance over my shoulder at the lens he has set on the rim of the bath, I see that he is reading it in its original language.

I wait for him to reach a natural pause before I ask, “Did you learn to read Latin in Ribald S?”

He grunts and lifts his left knee for me to wash. “Yeah. It was a stasis prison. You know what that is?”

I shake my head and let him tell me, or not, as he chooses.

“We were kept in tubes. Nutrients pumped in. Electrostim for our muscles. Anything we wanted to see for our brains. Decanted once a week for social and a stretch. Most of the cons watched porn. Guards though it was funny as hell I spent my time reading.”

“Did you learn any other languages?”

“A little Greek. I wanted to read _The Odyssey_. Enough Italian to read Machiavelli, but after learnin’ Latin that wasn’t too hard. I was just startin’ Chinese when I broke out.”

There’s a great deal I want to ask. How he broke out. Why he learned so many dead languages. What he thought of Machiavelli, whose teachings I have heard of, but not read myself. But I push all questions to the back of my mind. I promised not to ask him about his past, and I will keep my promise. If he wants to tell me, I will listen, but I will not question him again. 

He does not offer more, but goes back to reading. I listen to his measured translation of a language last commonly spoken over a millennia before his birth and marvel at the mind of the man before me. This convict. This conqueror.

 

After his bath, the Beast accompanies me to my solarium, where I find that Nazya, anticipating this as she anticipates so much, has already moved the furnishings to the edges of the room and relocated the tea service that usually sits in the center of the room. The opened floorspace is ample for dancing, although the Beast’s presence fills it, as he fills any space he occupies. If he does join us, we will have to find a larger room.

He fiddles with the large wall lens while I look for anything Nazya has overlooked. Unsurprisingly, I find nothing.

“There,” the Beast says. I join him at the lens to see what he’s arranged. He’s accessed the central database, and called up a music archive. “Plenty there for you to choose from. Or you could sing.”

“Singing and dancing might be too much of a challenge for me tonight.” Particularly with the baby pressing up against my diaphragm; I get short of breath just walking uphill these days. 

“If any of it’s too much, want you to sit down. Take a break.” Then he grins. “Don’t want you passin’ out on me again.”

I roll my eyes. Clearly that incident was excessively gratifying for his ego. 

He turns from the lens and takes me in his arms. “I’ll come get you at curfew.”

I turn my face up to his, in the hope of a kiss. “I had a thought about what we could do this evening, since we’ve slept much of the day.”

“Yeah?” he asks before he fulfills my hope.

When he lets me up for air, I say, “When we were discussing the Furyans, I was reminded of your feet and how I used to rub them when you first came to me. I would like to rub you, from toes to . . . tip.”

His eyes flare. “Tip.”

“Top . . . of your head.”

“Of my _head_.” He pulls me closer, tight against his chest, and one of his huge hands slides down to cup my buttocks.

“Good Lord, are you two at it again?” Elkie’s broad drawl makes me pull back from the Beast. She stands in the open doorway, wearing as little as I have seen her wear – just a pair of low-slung leather pants and a halter across her breasts. She’s barefoot and without any of her usual belts or bandoliers. “No wonder you’ve got a bun in the oven, darlin’.”

“What’re you doin’ here?” the Beast growls.

“I thought we were dancin’.”

“Did Tirea invite you? That was thoughtful of her,” I say to forestall the Beast. I put my palm on his chest and gently push until there’s a little space between our bodies. He lets me go reluctantly.

Avalyn appears in the hallway behind Elkie, red-eyed and flushed. “Oh, I thought I was early,” she says.

I frown a question at her. Why does she look so discomfited? At the shake of her head, I ask, “Did you need to speak with me before the others arrive?”

“If you have a moment,” she says.

“Of course.”

The Beast and Elkie both glower at being excluded, but I am inured to the Beast’s glower and I shoo them out. After sealing the door behind them, I take Avalyn’s hands and guide her to a chaise, where she slumps and puts her hands over her face.

“Cawl’s leaving,” she says, running her hands up into her hair and tugging at it.

I rub my hands down her bare arms, which are rippled with goosebumps. “Did something happen?”

Something other than the Beast demanding Cawl join the Necromongers or leave Furya. 

“I don’t know! Last night . . . oh, Li, last night was so wonderful. We came back from the beach and it was . . . wonderful. He said the most wonderful things and he made me feel—”

“Wonderful?” I guess.

She nods tearfully and I silently reprimand myself for teasing her when she’s in such turmoil. “Then this morning Greer said something to him over breakfast, before all the Furyans left. Something about him not being man enough to take part in the Hunt. What does that mean?!”

I control a disgusted sigh. Shirah and her Hunt again. Spreading more misery. “It’s a Furyan ritual. Cawl’s right not to want any part of it.”

Avalyn puts her hand over her mouth, stifling a sob. “It hurt him, what Greer said. Then this afternoon Riddick called them all together and when he came back from that, he was furious. Raging. And now he says he’s going. What am I going to do?” A tear spills down her cheek, followed by another.

I smile at her gently and use the hem of my gown to blot her tears. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do,” I say, feeling strong and certain, wrapped in the heritage of the words I say. Words Aimi said to me when I despaired of losing the Beast. “You’re going to go and help him pack. And then you’re going to take off your clothes and put them in his bags, and tell him that anywhere he goes, you’re going with him.”

Avalyn hiccups in surprise. “Bu-but, I don’t want to leave.”

“You’re not going to. Sometimes, with these thick-headed men, you have to do something dramatic to get their attention. So that they appreciate they mean more to you than anything else.”

Avalyn curls toward me miserably and I put my arm around her shoulders. “He does. Damalis, he does. He means so much to me.”

My heart goes out to her. “Tell him that.”

She shakes her head. “He won’t hear it. He says he’s too old for me. That last night was a mistake. But he’s not! He’s wonderful and strong and kind. He just won’t listen.”

“Try telling him when you’re naked. It’s amazing, the effect a woman’s nakedness can have on a man’s hearing.”

Avalyn laughs shakily. “Do you really think so? That’s so . . . Nadie.”

“It is.” I laugh with her. “But in this case, I think Nadie’s methods are probably most effective. Talking won’t salve his pride, or make him realize you are worth staying for. But offering your heart to him might.”

Avalyn glances over her shoulder at the door. “When do you think I should—?”

“Right now. Don’t give him a chance to escape.”

“Li.” She gives me another shaky laugh.

“Wash your face first. Brush your hair so you feel beautiful for him. Go quick.”

She flushes. “I’m not—”

Beautiful? Oh, my poor sister.

“I’ve seen the way he looks at you. You are beautiful in his eyes.” I smile mistily, remembering Aimi’s same words to me, and discovering my own beauty through the Beast’s eyes. “And his are the only eyes that matter. Go on.”

She hugs me crushingly and rushes out.

Elkie peers around the open doorway. “She comin’ back?”

“Doubtful.” I smile to myself. Although I don’t envy Avalyn her present heartache, I do envy her the night ahead, should Cawl prove as susceptible as the Beast to the wisdom of Necromonger women.

“Riddick said to tell you he’d be back for you at curfew.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.” I cannot contain my smile. I am sure the Beast is as eager to commence our evening as I am.

Behind Elkie, three women come down the hallway. They wear Tirea’s lovely light gowns. Sanjula in a gossamer green as light as sea foam. I don’t know the other two woman, one in blue with a white underskirt, the other in vibrant orange splashed with white caracoatta flowers, although I recognize the woman in blue as the pilot Hallete. Her dusky beauty is the stuff of legend among the legionnaires, as is her refusal of any suitor. 

“Is there a problem with curfew?” Sanjula asks as she nears.

“No, everything’s fine,” I say, taking Sanjula’s hands in greeting. “I’m so pleased Tirea suggested this.”

Sanjula beams. “Me, too. Li, do you know Halle and Gvenne?”

I greet the two other women. Halle’s piquant features, tumble of thick black curls and smooth cocoa skin are eye-catching to be sure, but her eyes, pale in her dark face, are distant and cool. I warm more quickly to Gvenne, who has the coloring of an Aquillian, although her eyes are merely a light brown rather than the rare amber of Thaniel’s twin, Chione. When I take Gvenne’s hands in greeting, I notice her hands and forearms have been painted with delicate vines and outlines of white flowers that match those on her gown.

“This is lovely,” I say, running my fingertips over the design.

“Do you like it, Lady Liaden?” Gvenne asks, a touch of anxiety in her voice.

“Very much, and please call me Liaden. I know someone you should meet. Have you seen the paintings on Zibon’s walls?”

“Oh, yes, by the Furyan Jarone?”

I gather I was the last to discover the artist’s identity. “Have you met him?”

“No, but I would very much like to.”

“I’ll introduce you tomorrow.” Maybe Jarone can paint Gvenne instead of me. She’s much more shapely than I am at the moment.

Tirea rushes down the hallway in a flurry of lavender skirts. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” she says.

I take her hands in welcome. “You’re not late. Would anyone like something to drink?”

“Ooo, yes, I brought Cark,” Sanjula says, taking a bag off her shoulder. “And nectar, for anyone who shouldn’t be drinking Cark.” She winks at me, and then at Tirea, confirming the Beast’s suspicions.

I organize teacups for everyone and while we drink, Tirea and Sanjula cluster around the lens. As I’m finishing my cup of nectar, soft strains of pipe music fill my solarium.

Sanjula returns to us. She’s practically skipping. Tirea trails her at a slower pace. “Is Avalyn coming?” she asks me.

I shake my head. “An emergency.”

Tirea and Sanjula trade knowing smiles.

“Well, that means we can do triples,” Sanjula says. “Tirea’s asked me to teach you the _janeal_. It’s a group dance. There are six basic movements. We’ll do them one by one until you’re all comfortable and then we’ll put them together to do the dance.”

Gvenne giggles nervously and I smile at her. When we form into two groups of three, I invite her into my group and Elkie joins us. Sanjula shows us how to hold hands, palms up and touching. The six moves are very basic: stepping in to the middle, stepping back, circling right, circling left, a small tapping kick to the front, and a small tapping kick to the back. We master the moves in a few minutes, with a lot of giggling and a pause while we all remove our footwear after Gvenne and I both step on Elkie’s bare toes. 

Sanjula changes the music to a slightly faster tune with a strong drumbeat. She does skip back to us this time. We form up again, and Sanjula calls out the combinations, slowly at first and then to the rhythm of the music until we are indeed dancing, circling, kicking, coming together and moving apart in time, our palms always together, and if our bare feet meet from time to time, no one’s toes are bruised.

It’s the giggling rather than the dancing that finally undoes me. Gvenne has never stopped giggling. Elkie keeps egging her on by attempting ever more outrageous additions to the basic movements Sanjula has taught us. Watching Elkie’s antics and listening to Gvenne giggle, I cannot control my own laughter. Finally, I have to take my right palm away from Elkie’s to press it against the stitch in my side. 

Sanjula immediately stops calling out the steps and rushes to my side.

“Li, oh, Li, are you okay? I shouldn’t have gone so fast!”

I hold up my hand while I try to catch my breath. “It is not the tempo. It’s those two.” I indicate my fellow dancers. Elkie does a fancy two-step that Sanjula has not taught us and Gvenne giggles unrepentantly. “I just need a moment.”

“No, let’s all take a break. I’ll get us drinks.” Sanjula all but drags me to a chaise and presses a cup of nectar into my hands. 

Gvenne sits on the chaise next to me, suddenly somber. “I’m so sorry, Lady.”

I pat her knee. “It’s Liaden and don’t be. Is there any better reason to be out-of-breath than because of laughter?”

“Never apologize for havin’ fun, darlin’,” Elkie says as she flops dramatically on the floor at my feet. She hooks her elbow over my knees while she sips from her teacup. 

“Li,” Tirea says softly from the adjoining chaise. “What’s it like?”

“Being pregnant? Uncomfortable, ungainly, occasionally flatulent, but wonderful,” I say.

That breaks all of the too-sober group into laughter.

“Master Tomoetu has said he might be able to reverse the procedure,” Sanjula says.

So Sanjula was one of the ones who asked. Tirea studies her teacup and I surmise that she does not need the procedure reversed. “If anyone can, Master Tomoetu will.”

“I’m not sure I’d want to be flatulent, even occasionally,” Gvenne says, breaking into giggles again.

I finish my nectar and put my cup aside. “Come, I’m perfectly fine, and dancing’s much too fun to stop.” 

I rise, gently pushing Elkie’s arm off my knees, which I did not object to, but did not entirely welcome, either. For all that she is like him, she is not the Beast and his is the only touch I truly want.

We form our threesomes and after a minute of getting back into the rhythm of the dance, are whirling again in our small circles. Although I feel the weight of my belly, it does not slow me. I am strong, in body and spirit, and I will not be impeded by the little burden I carry. Even that impediment is soon forgotten in the joy of rhythm and movement.

 

Alerted by the red flare of the lens, which signals curfew, we are back on the chaises enjoying a final drink when the Beast arrives. I have left the door unsealed so that any can enter, and he does so at a prowl. His eyes flick over our small group, taking in the five other women. He does not linger on Halle despite her beauty, but on Elkie, more concerned, as ever, by threat than allure.

I was a fool to think him diverted, or even engaged, by Nadie’s beauty. He calls me beautiful, but my appearance was not why he chose me initially, nor what won him to me eventually. He wanted my loyalty, and eventually my love. 

_Shirah’s only loyalty is to herself_ , he thinks, his thoughts resounding like a drum in my mind. _Doubt she’s capable of love. You understand now?_

 _Yes, my love._ I let him feel my remorse at ever having been jealous of the Furyan. And he lets me feel his disgust. Not for me, but for Shirah. She has used their shared chemistry as a weapon, as a dagger, to pierce his shield of indifference, and even dislike, of her as a person. She could not attract him, so she sought to wound him instead. And she has done the same to the other Furyan males who could not, or would not, mate her: Cawl, Hardy and Jarone, whose drawn cheeks and bruised eyes I should have recognized.

“Uh.” Sanjula clears her throat nervously, glancing from me to the Beast, and I realize we have been staring at each other too long, too hard. 

I smile at her. “Thank you so much for teaching us the _janeal_. Tirea, thank you so much for suggesting this. Can we do it again soon?”

The other women, even remote Halle, readily agree.

The Beast moves to my side as the women say their goodbyes. “You’re gonna need a bigger room,” he says to me as I wave Gvenne farewell. “Ain’t gonna stay just you six once word gets out.”

There is a large open green in my garden, doubtless now occupied by inflatable beds and resentful Furyans. But Hobbi said Shirah’s cycle would end in another day or two, so by the time we meet again to dance, my garden might be available. I offer that thought tentatively to the Beast.

His jaw juts. “Yeah, it’ll be empty. One way or another.”

Understanding now the depths of his anger and resentment towards Shirah, I bow my head and reach for his hand. He takes it and gives me a reassuring squeeze.

Elkie approaches us slowly. She has been within touching distance of me the entire time, but as soon as the Beast appeared, she removed herself. Now she stops at arm’s length and looks at the Beast.

“Can I hug her?”

I glare at both Furyans. “My friends do not need to ask.” I hold out my free hand to her. She steps forward, gives me a one-armed hug and steps back.

“’Night, Riddick,” she says.

“Night,” he growls.

“Li, Thaniel misses you. If you have time to see him tomorrow, he’d like it.”

I shake my head. “I am otherwise engaged. Please give Thaniel my regrets and my warm compliments for the tremendous job he is doing in the garden. I will join him there as I may.”

Elkie glances from me to the Beast. “You can’t keep her in a cage.”

The Beast begins to growl, so I say to forestall him, “I am where I need to be. I am not caged, and I would thank you not to try to understand the dictates of my heart.”

Elkie’s eyes narrow. “Not sure I believe you.”

“Believe what you like,” I say, echoing the Beast’s words. “I will say again, so that there can be no misunderstanding, I am where I need and want to be, at the side of my lord.” At my words, my Collar flares and Elkie squints painfully.

“Fine,” she says. “I’ll tell Thaniel.”

When the door snicks shut behind her, the Beast chuckles. “Don’t think she liked bein’ told to step off.”

“She is so like you, you could be twins,” I observe. 

The Beast holds up his hands. “You tellin’ me to step off?”

I turn and place my palms against his. Step into him, then back, showing him the moves of the dance. He follows my motions avidly. “Of course not. I’m saying you both react the same way to the agendas of others that run counter to your own. I still haven’t figured out what she wants.”

He takes my hands and puts them behind his neck, drawing me against him and swaying gently, back and forth. “Pretty sure she wants this.”

“Has my devotion to you gone unnoticed?”

He chuckles. “Dunnow, but could you turn off the lightshow? Hurts my eyes, too.”

I focus on my Collar, which is more likely to obey his desires than mine, but I have had some small success in damping it down. It dies slowly and I watch the reflection fade in the Beast’s eyes.

“Are you ready for your massage?” I ask, smiling up into those silvered eyes.

“Dunnow. Lemme think . . .”

“Stop teasing me,” I object, taking his hand and dragging him from my solarium to our chambers, where I massage him from toes to tip, as promised, and then love him the same distance, when such intimate touch leads to its inevitable end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The dancing scene in this chapter is actually what inspired "Lords of Furya." I had no intention (or even a kernel of an idea) to write a sequel to "Her Lord Marshal's Right Hand" when I finished it, but then I began dreaming about Li dancing with other Necromonger women and realized I had another story to tell.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has stuck with me so far. As I said in response to a comment recently, we're 2/3 of the way through now. The final third is a roller-coaster. I hope you all enjoy!


	17. Chapter 17

He wakes me by tossing restlessly in the doze we’ve settled into after our lovemaking. I wake him with kisses, as he did me during our months of travel. He starts at the touch of my mouth, but settles back against the pillows and puts his hands behind his head as he wakes. He smiles up at me, the same constrained smile I have seen before, and I know whatever disturbed his sleep was not a normal dream. He usually moves instantly from sleep to full alertness, but this morning he blinks for several moments before his eyes sharpen, and even after he rises, he wears faint purple smudges under his eyes.

Remembering Jarone’s bruised eyes, and the haunted look in Hardy’s, I feel the slow burn of anger. Shirah is still torturing them. I don’t know how. Perhaps it is just her pheromones. Perhaps it is something more. But this is her doing.

As we dress, I resolve to put a stop to it.

Furya’s sun is rising in a glorious blaze of red and gold when we enter the galley. The Beast lowers his goggles over his eyes, so I cannot see their shadows, but I know they are still there. The Furyan Hardy is already at breakfast, and the shadows under his eyes are as black as Furya’s midnight.

I guide the Beast to the table where Hardy sits. None of the Beast’s commanders are at breakfast yet, so there is no one to offend. I sit across the table from Hardy, at the Beast’s right hand as he sits at its head, close enough to speak to the Furyan easily, intimately, but not so close that he feels threatened. 

Under cover of pouring rowela nectar for all of us, I say to Hardy, “I am very pleased you decided to stay with us.”

Those deep-sunk eyes flick up to me, and he manages a smile even more strained than the Beast’s. There is a gap in his front teeth, and I have no doubt he lost the tooth through violence rather than disease or design.

“Thank you, you know, for invitin’ me.” He gestures to the napkin lying on his lap, which he has placed there himself this morning, but I know to what he refers.

“You are most welcome. Furya’s children have suffered much in the years since the Necromonger’s first Descent. It would be a great shame if our second Descent caused more suffering, when it could heal those old wounds.”

Hardy grunts, a higher, softer sound than the Beast’s, but still instantly recognizable to my ear. That, too, must be genetic. 

“When Riddick joined us,” I continue. “He still suffered from some of those wounds.”

I pause while Aereon, Vaako, Daray and Sanjula enter the galley. They all make their way to our table, and seat themselves around us. Vaako glowers at me as he sits next to Hardy. He cannot possibly know that I arranged our seating this morning, and yet he still directs his ire at me.

Vaako can be just as tiresome as Nadie at times. But where I can afford to ignore and discount Nadie, I cannot do so with the Beast’s commander.

I smile pleasantly at Vaako, and turn back to Hardy. “His feet suffered most grievously of all.”

Hardy’s eyes flash up to me again, then drop back to his plate. He’s barely touched Chef’s caviar-garnished, scrambled eggs or the rich, crisp slabs of Jeranda bacon in front of him and I wonder if he has been touched by the same anorexia as the Beast.

Thinking of the Beast makes me glance at his plate, only to discover that, while I’ve been diverted, he has snuck some of the bacon into his trencher. While I know the bacon is a favorite of his, he will have to forgo it until Chef finds a substitute, if we are to see if Furyan fare has the desired effect. I transfer the bacon onto my own plate and replace it with native sausage, which earns me a growl from the Beast.

“If any of Furya’s other children suffered those same wounds,” I say neutrally, so that Hardy will not feel I am singling him out. “I would be pleased to assist them. I learned much from treating Riddick.”

The Beast, who has been silent while engaging in his bacon-sneaking activities, says, “Yeah, you did a good job of fixing me up.”

I thank him for his endorsement with a smile. Having made my point, I concentrate on eating my own breakfast, beginning with the steamed roll that Chef has sent out to me, then working my way through eggs and the Beast’s bacon. The change in our schedule has affected my appetite for the better, and I eat what should be breakfast, but is actually our dinner, with relish.

All of the Beast’s commanders eventually make an appearance. Hardy excuses himself after eating a few bites, but not before he leans across the table and whispers to me, “I might need fixing up.”

“I would be pleased to assist you, if you would come to Lord Riddick’s chamber after the ceremony this evening?”

Hardy nods and slips away.

“I will not meet with him alone,” I offer to the Beast.

He shrugs. “I’ll be there, but I’m not worried about him. If anythin’, I think he’s more afraid of you than you need t’be of him.”

“I mean him no harm.”

“That’s what he’s afraid of.”

We linger over breakfast, until Kreon is high in the sky. The Beast speaks with all of his commanders, and many of the legionnaires. He nods to Aereon, sitting a short distance down the table, but does not speak to her, and I find I am loathe to do so as well. Sanjula’s bright chatter keeps me diverted and we plan our next dancing evening.

The only marked absences at breakfast are Cawl and Avalyn. As we make our way back to the sanctum and pass the closed door to Cawl’s room, the Beast gives me a knowing smile. But we both freeze when we hear a roar that has nothing to do with passion. 

The Beast presses his ear to the closed door. The sound of breaking glass is loud enough for me to hear a meter away.

“Avalyn,” I breathe to the Beast.

He nods grimly and passes his hand over the lens beside the door. It slides open silently and shows us the chaos within.

The legs of overturned furniture poke out from under piles of clothes and bed linens. In the middle of the battlefield, Cawl stands naked, roaring in fury, while he pulls on something under the bed.

“Lyn,” I choke and start forward.

The Beast catches me and tucks me behind him with a sweep of his arm. Holding me against his back, he edges forward until we can see around the foot of the wide bed.

Cawl throws his head back and strains against a thin chain that tethers his ankle to the bed. When neither the chain nor the bedpost it is locked to gives, he slams his fist repeatedly into the footboard.

“Fuckin’ Necromonger witch!” he roars.

“Cawl,” I begin, but the Beast shakes his head. Wordlessly, he crouches and examines the manacle. He presses his fingers against the tiny blue pressure lock on the cuff, but it remains stubbornly closed.

The snick of the door behind me drags my eyes away from the two men. Avalyn walks through the door, carrying a tray of meat and bread. Even with her head down, I can see that she glows with happiness.

Until she sees the chaos just inside the doorway. Her eyes lift and flick from me to the Beast to Cawl.

“Oh, no, no,” she breathes. “I didn’t mean to be so long. I didn’t think you’d wake. I got talking to Zetty . . .”

“Un-fuckin’-chain me!” Cawl roars at her.

She sets the tray down on the floor and scrambles to the foot of the bed, holding her soft yellow gown out of the way with one hand. The Beast draws aside and Avalyn reaches past him to unlock the manacle, speaking fast to Cawl all the while, “I swear I only chained you because I was afraid you’d wake up while I was gone and change your mind about staying and leave without saying goodbye and I shouldn’t have left you for so long but you were so tired I didn’t think you’d wake up and I’m so sorry and—”

“Shut up!” Cawl bellows. He yanks his foot free as soon as the manacle springs open and grabs a pair of trousers off the floor. “You fuckin’ Necromonger witch!” He pulls the trousers on, hopping around Avalyn in his haste. As he passes her, she cringes and I start forward, ready to protect her if he strikes out at her in rage.

The Beast is back beside me before I take more than a single step, sweeping me behind him with one big hand. “Stay outta it, Liaden,” he growls to me.

“But Avalyn—” I gesture at the girl crouching on the floor, looking shrunken with heartache and so very defenseless.

“Cawl, please,” Avalyn whispers, bowing over until her head nearly touches her knees. “Please don’t leave.”

“Or what?! You’ll chain me to the fuckin’ bed again!” He throws an open case onto the bed and begins tossing clothes and equipment at it haphazardly.

“I was afraid,” Avalyn cries. She presses her fists between her breasts and rocks over herself, a gesture I know so well it brings tears to my eyes. “I didn’t know what to do.”

“Riddick,” I choke.

He tucks me further behind him and backs towards the door.

“Take me with you,” Avalyn whispers. The sound of her voice, tear-filled and pleading, claws through me, tearing holes in my heart. How can Cawl stand this? How can he ignore her pain?

“Fuck no,” Cawl growls, but he stops throwing things at the case and stands looking down at the floor as though searching for something.

“Then take my heart with you. I don’t want it anymore . . .” She holds out her fist, and seeing the blood on her closed fingers, my own heart leaps into my throat for a second. She wouldn’t . . .

“Avvy?” Cawl drops to one knee beside her. He pries open her fingers and the breath catches in my throat. Please, please Xia, don’t let her be holding her heart.

A bloodied shape sits on her palm, but the contours are wrong. Hard edges of metal catch the light and I sag against the Beast’s back in relief. It’s the metal eye that Cawl wore during our day at the beach, and which Avalyn wore when I saw her last night. She must have been clutching at it so tightly the metal cut into her fingers.

“I gave this to you,” Cawl growls, but his tone has softened, and he closes his hand around hers, curling her fingers back over the amulet.

Avalyn shakes her head, dark hair swishing around her bowed shoulders.

“You don’t want it?” Hurt steals into Cawl’s growl, and the Beast pushes me another step back towards the door.

“I want you!” Avalyn cries, curling her free arm over her head and rocking back and forth on her knees again. “You said you wanted me, too.”

“I do,” Cawl says gruffly.

“You said I was beautiful.” She’s sobbing now, rocking faster, both arms curled over her head. “No man’s ever called me beautiful . . . and now you’re going to leave and I’ll never be beautiful to anyone again—”

“Avvy, you are beautiful.” Cawl takes her shoulders and pulls her up against him.

“Out,” the Beast murmurs to me, pushing me through the portal that opens at the swipe of his hand. In the hallway, he closes the door and presses against it, listening. I hover at his shoulder, wishing my senses were as keen as his.

“Bed’s creaking,” he says, pushing back from the door with a grin. “They’ll be fine.”

“But, Riddick—”

The Beast shakes his head at me with a lazy grin. “When a man tells a woman she’s beautiful, he’s lost the fight.”

I take his arm and lean into his shoulder as we start walking towards our quarters again. “Oh? So all I have to do to win an argument is ask you if I’m beautiful?”

“Don’t try it,” he warns, but there is no force to his growl. I laugh, both at his response, and with delight at the happiness our friends have found in each other.

 

We find a new rhythm. We sleep away the day, curled together in our great bed, the Beast’s hands on my distended stomach, feeling the liquid movements of our daughter, who has not adopted the Beast’s nocturnal schedule. In Furya’s golden afternoon, we rise and he leads the legionnaire’s training. I stand at his right hand and spar with him when he requires. The rest of the time I observe his mastery of his legionnaires, and know in my heart that Cawl’s warning was misplaced. The Beast’s army is as fanatically devoted to him as they ever were to Zhylaw. But where Zhylaw ruled them through fear, the Beast rules them by example. He is the strongest, swiftest, deadliest of them all, and they adore him.

On the first day, after training, we remain in the hangar and are joined by technicians and courtiers. The Furyans file in as well, sandwiched between rows of legionnaires. I do not see Shirah, or Callum.

I wear the elegant white gown the Beast has had Tirea make for me. It wraps me in lace, baring my belly but covering the rest of me from throat to fingertips to ankles. Each lace rose is outlined in glittering Necromonger black. The train sweeps a meter behind me, scalloped like the petals of a flower and I have to blink back tears at the beauty and thoughtfulness of the Beast’s commission. I am not the only one who cries. The elderly Furyan priest, Sene, weeps throughout the ceremony he officiates, this time I hope for joy, and I hear many snuffles in the crowd as the Beast and I exchange our vows. The ring the Beast places on my finger is a thin band of linked scales, like the Collar around my neck and the locator on my wrist. A matched set. I give Rohne credit for the beauty of his design, even as I feel the scales bite into the soft pad of flesh where my finger joins my palm, and recognize the cruelty that is his trademark.

The Beast’s ring is a solid band of metal, with the scale design incised in black around it. As I slide it onto his finger, the scales lift slightly, then sink into the ring. A bead of blood forms around the ring’s rolled edge, and I realize the scales have bitten into the Beast’s finger. He will not be able to take the ring off, and I wonder if that is the Beast’s design, or Rohne’s.

The Beast gives no sign of the ring’s bite and leans in for one of his soft, searing kisses when Sanne pronounces us man and wife, to a resounding cheer from those assembled.

Once we are wed, the Beast calls Jarone and Hardy to him. He has them kneel and swear their loyalty to the Necromongers and their Lord Marshal. Then he gives them each a strong, straight blade, has them cut their palms and his, clasps their bleeding hands and pulls them upright to face him. He appoints Jarone “Painter of Zibon” and Hardy “Warden,” but does not elaborate on either title. Then he dismisses the assembly and lets me bind his palms.

“Are you ready for your bath?” I ask, unsure of his plans now that the ceremony is over.

“Yeah, _wife_.”

He seems excessively pleased with himself. His grin only grows wider when Daray and Sirel come to slap him on his back and offer their congratulations. Vaako hangs back, a shadow on the edge of the circle that grows as his other commanders and many of the legionnaires come to congratulate us. Finally, Vaako comes forward and offers his hand to the Beast, who takes it in a gladiator’s hand-shake. Vaako leans in and whispers to the Beast, words the Beast lets me hear in his mind since they are too low to hear with my ears, “May you find the happiness in your marriage that I never found in mine.”

The Beast claps Vaako on the shoulder. With his mind still open to me, I feel the Beast’s sorrow at his commander’s loneliness and loss.

A thought lights my mind. A sudden connection. It is not their appearance that is similar, although Halle has the same sort of dusky beauty that must have attracted Vaako to his former companion, but it is rather the reserve, the cool, that strikes a chord. I dip a curtsey to the Beast and his commanders, then hurry through the crowd until I find Halle talking with Tirea. With the barest of excuses, I drag them to where Vaako and the Beast still stand, and introduce Halle to Vaako.

I see the flicker in Vaako’s eyes before I turn back to the Beast on the pretense of asking him whether he requires Tomoetu or Cays to see to his hands.

I find his silver eyes on me. “You matchmakin’ again?” he asks, so low that he could be whispering in my mind.

I glance to where Cawl and Avalyn stand only a few meters away, their arms around each other. Avalyn glows like a newly opened rose, while Cawl laughs, loudly and uninhibitedly, at some joke Elkie has made.

“Yes,” I say.

The Beast chuckles.

 

After training, we retire to our chambers for the Beast’s bath, and this first day of our new routine sets the tone for all others. Hardy appears shortly after the Beast climbs into the tub.

Caden escorts the Furyan into the bath chamber, salutes and leaves Hardy to our mercy. The Furyan looks ready to bolt, white flashing around the pupils of his eyes, half-hidden in shadow and the lank brown locks of his hair. His expression does not change when I pat the seat I have made for him at the edge of the bath, padded with towels and cushions. The Beast’s nostrils flare when the Furyan passes him, and I know he is scenting Hardy’s fear. 

In deference to Hardy, both the Beast and I are clothed. The Beast wears dark briefs as he lounges in his bath, a concession about which he only stopped complaining when Caden opened the door. I am gowned in my old bathing robes, loose enough to fit my swollen shape and modest even when wet. That they remind me of when I used to bathe Zhylaw is of no consequence, and I ram that thought into the darkest basement of my mind.

The Beast does not read to me today, but he has set a portable lens on the edge of the bath. Stimulated, perhaps, by our dancing last night, the Beast accesses the music archive and soft music fills the bathing chamber. This is not Necromonger music, which tends to be militaristic in tone, but rather a gently melody made by pipes and enlivened with deep drums.

Hardy pauses in the process of unbuckling his boots. “I’ve heard this before,” he says.

The Beast nods before he lies back in the bath, spreads his arms across the rim and rests his head on the cushion. “Furyan music. Liaden found it.”

Yes, I did, during my research on the original Colony, but I did not know the Beast had reviewed my research, or listened to any of the music files.

Hardy finishes stripping off his boots and sits, with little of the animal grace the Furyans usually display, on the towels I have laid next to the bath. I fold the hem of his leather pants up carefully while I try to control my reaction to the feet he has bared.

They are worse than the Beast’s, and the Beast’s were the worst I had ever seen. It is one thing to treat a fresh wound, angry and red. There is something clean about that redness, and the surety of healing. It is another to treat a suppurating wound, stinking and pus-stained. There is still the knowledge that under the dead tissue, there is red life, only waiting to be brought to the surface.

It is quite another, I discover, to treat wounds so old the tissue is black. To see hard yellow knobs of exposed ossein, and toenails so twisted and split they could be the shattered remnants of bone. To see lumps of scar-tissue so disfiguring that the original shape of the flesh can no longer be traced.

And the smell, sweet Xia, the smell.

The Beast grunts and I know he is objecting to the stink of corruption. I fold back the edge of the towel I have laid across my lances and files, salves and bandages, to keep the sight of them from frightening Hardy, take out a vial of antiseptic salve that has a clean, citrus scent, and spread it across Hardy’s right foot, careful to keep my touch light. Then I wrap his foot in an infrared wrap that will speed healing and help break up the scar-tissue. I set his right foot back on the rim of the bath while I turn to his left foot.

His left foot is most maltreated. He has lost the two small toes, and it is from one stump that bone protrudes. There is also a sore on his ankle so old, dry and deep that I can see down to the bone. I will need Cays to assist me with those injuries, and moving to the lens for a moment, I call her.

“No,” Hardy objects. “No Necros.”

 _So_ like the Beast.

“She will only assist me for a minute,” I say to placate him. Moving back to him, I spread salve over the sore on his ankle and watch him flinch even though I barely touch him. “She can heal this today. If I do it on my own, it will take a week.”

“It doesn’t bother me,” he grits out.

If those were not the Beast’s exact words to me when I first tended his feet, then I am an Aquilian tree frog.

“It will only last for a moment,” I promise, and to divert him, I find a safe spot higher on his ankle and begin rubbing the salve into his skin with firm but gentle strokes of my thumbs.

Just like the Beast, he responds best to touch, and has relaxed back onto his elbows with his foot in my hands when Cays enters.

She wears one of Tirea’s new gowns as well, and I am pleased to see so many of our people shedding the Necromonger black like snake skins. As she passes the Beast, she dips in what I think is a curtsey, but it is really to lay her hand briefly on the Beast’s head. When she rises, she flicks dried blood from her palms.

“I didn’t ask for that,” the Beast growls.

“Master Tomoetu asked,” Cays says affectionately. “So that you would not have to.”

I grin at the healers’ collusion, but sober when Cays kneels next to Hardy. The Beast still finds Necromonger healing painful, and I have no doubt that Hardy will, too.

“How can I assist, Lady?” Cays asks me, surveying the ruin of Hardy’s foot. 

I point out the deep sore and bone stub. “I will attend the rest.”

Cays looks into the Furyan’s face, and for a moment I think he will bolt, he looks so madly fearful. I put my hands on his bare shin, not to hold him down, but to remind him of the comfort of touch. 

“This will hurt,” Cays admits to him. “But only for a moment. I know you have endured much more pain than this. This is a pain that will pass.”

“All pain passes,” Hardy rasps, and I know that for him, not all pain does pass. Some he carries with him, moment by moment.

Cays nods and puts her hands over mine. I feel a tingle as her healing energy passes through me. A moment of warmth in my belly as she heals the pulled muscle. A soft flare in my back. Then her energy moves into the man under our joined hands. 

Whatever he feels, it is not gentle warmth. He goes rigid, and then throws his head back and howls like a rabid hellhound.

Despite the Beast’s stricture that I touch only his feet, I cannot stop myself from throwing my arms around him. I find Cays has, too, and that we hold him together, long after the moment of healing is over, while he shakes and strains and whimpers in our arms. 

Cays touches her forehead to his. “Let me take away your pain,” she pleads.

“No! It’s mine! It’s mine . . . they’re mine . . .” he sobs.

I am aware of the Beast’s movement only when he kneels behind Hardy and closes his arms around all three of us. He hums deep in his chest, and whether it is that low vibration, which the Beast only makes when he is safe and satiated, or whether it is the touch of another Furyan, Hardy slowly quiets.

When I am confident he will not run away, I release him. I straighten, rubbing my back, which has been strained afresh as I bent over the edge of the bath to hold him. Cays, looking gray and drained although the healing could not have taxed her that deeply, reaches over and touches my shoulder. When she rises, she rubs her back. I nod at her gratefully.

“Call me whenever you have need,” she says as she leaves.

A glance back at Hardy shows him half-asleep against the Beast’s chest. The Beast is no longer holding him, simply supporting the other Furyan against his body. Taking that as a sign that both men are content with their current positions, I turn back to Hardy’s tormented feet.

The bone stub has fallen out during Cays’s healing, and all that is left of his two smallest toes are smoothly healed stumps. I remove the rest of his toenails, which peel off after only a short soaking. I clean the beds carefully, pack them with salve and wrap them in bandages. I file all the dead skin from his heel and sole, lance a pair of raw-looking blisters, and smooth salve over the exposed tissue. The awful sore on his ankle has healed to a clean, pink disk. Necromonger healing usually leaves a scar, and with such a deep wound it is a surety, but it will soften with time and care. I massage the scar tissue before moving on to his right foot.

The salve and wrap have already started my work on this foot, but there is a deep split in the skin between his first and second toes that I spend some time cleaning. I remove three corrupted toenails and clean and trim the other two. I finish by massaging the ropes of scar tissue that twist down the top of his foot.

I draw the thick stockings, that I used to treat the Beast’s feet, over Hardy’s bandages and look up to see how my patient is enduring his treatment. He smiles hesitantly. He has a soft, full mouth, like the Beast’s, when he’s not grimacing, or screaming. It is hard to see under the ragged black beard he wears, though.

I cover the stained implements I have used on his feet and turn to the bowl, scissors, razor and emollient soap that I have by the bath to shave the Beast.

“Would you let me barber you?” I ask.

Hardy watches me for a long moment, before he nods.

“Perhaps you could turn around and lie with your head here?” I indicate the padded rim of the bath. If he agrees, it will allow the Beast to return to his own bath, which has been neglected during our care of the Furyan.

Hardy begins to sit up, but not before the Beast closes his hand around Hardy’s throat and whispers something in Hardy’s ear that I cannot hear.

“Huh, okay,” Hardy says.

I do not know what the Beast has proposed. I hope it is not another warning like the one the Beast gave Cawl, when he held the older Furyan in a similar position. Hardy does not look threatened as the Beast releases him. He doesn’t meet my eyes, but then Hardy rarely does.

The Beast slips back into his bath and Hardy positions himself on the towels and cushions so his head rests on the rim of the tub. I fill the bowl with water, wet Hardy’s thick, lank locks, soap and rinse them. I say nothing about the color or contents of the water that returns to the bowl, and pour it quickly down the floor drain so that it does not contaminate the Beast’s bathwater. I cannot get a comb through Hardy’s hair, so I clip off tangles until I achieve an even shag. He has a cowlick that resists taming, but I find it endearing and leave the thick swirl of hair. While I have the scissors in hand, I clip his ragged beard close to his jaw. I am suddenly hesitant to shave him further, wary both of the danger of nicking him and of touching him too intimately. The Beast must feel the hesitation in my mind.

“You can trust Liaden with a razor,” the Beast says.

Hardy, who has endured the haircut with closed eyes and clenched fists, opens his eyes and looks up at me. He tilts his head back and shows me a recessed pink scar that runs just under his jaw. “Last time I let someone near my throat with a razor,” he tells me.

I nod. “If I wanted to kill you, I’ve had ample access to your femoral artery.” 

“That’s true,” Hardy says. He closes his eyes again and his nostrils flare. “Go ahead.”

I shave him as carefully as I can. Letting the emollient soap soften the bristles before I pare them away. When I’m finished, I wipe his face with a clean towel, pleased to see I haven’t cut him, and rub the sandalwood and resin balm that I use on the Beast into his reddened skin with the tips of my fingers. His lips are chapped and I am tempted to touch the balm to them. 

I glance over at the Beast, unsure.

He’s watching me. His eyes have gone so dark they could the moon on black water. A smile is playing around the edges of his mouth. He nods at me, and when I touch the balm to Hardy’s lips, his eyes track my movement as avidly as he views my nakedness.

Hardy parts his lips and bites down, very lightly, on the tip of my middle finger.

I draw my hand away. That’s enough. I’m not sure what has passed between the two men, or what it means for me, but I know that my own reactions to a man who looks like the Beast, behaves like the Beast, and now smells like the Beast, but is _not_ my Beast, have become overly confusing.

“Thank you for letting me so near your throat,” I say gently as I move away from him and clean the implements I will use to bathe the Beast.

Hardy sits up and runs his hand through his hair. “Feels good.”

“I hope you find it comfortable. Please try to keep your feet dry. Those bandages need to be changed tomorrow.”

Hardy glances at the Beast. The two men trade a long look that does not include me, and which I cannot read.

Hardy picks up his boots, nods to me and makes his way gingerly on his bandaged feet out past the Beast. “Same time?” Hardy murmurs to the Beast.

“Yeah,” the Beast responds. “See you tomorrow.”

After Hardy leaves, I bathe the Beast. Although there are a dozen questions swirling around in my mind, I do not disturb him with them, but let him enjoy his bath in peace.

“Ask, Liaden,” he growls eventually. “Then I want to fuck. Supposed to be our weddin’ night.”

My thoughts must be very loud today. “May I ask what you said to him before?”

“Yeah, you can ask.” He chuckles as he lays his head back on the cushion. “Whether I’m gonna answer’s a different question.”

“Riddick—“ I implore.

He lifts his head and spears me with those mercuric eyes. “You trust me?”

“Of course I do.”

“I said if he came back, he’d be in the bath with me.”

I turn that over in my mind. The statement itself is odd enough its own, but I cannot fathom the Beast’s motive for wanting a dirty, bug-ridden, half-feral Furyan to share his bath. 

“Once he lets you wash him, he won’t be dirty,” the Beast says in response to my thought. He lets his head drop back.

“Obviously,” I say slowly. I lave him in silence for a time, then finally ask, “Why is it that Cawl cannot look at me, Elkie cannot touch me, but you are happy for me to bathe Hardy?”

“How’s he smell to you?”

I consider this while I move down to his feet. His clean, healed feet, which flex in my hands. Hardy’s feet are much the same size as the Beast’s. Hardy himself is much the Beast’s size, although Hardy is lean and rangy as though he’s never quite had enough to eat.

That thought rings true to me and I turn it over in my mind, along with the Beast’s query. 

“He smells like you,” I say finally, the best answer I can give him.

“Yeah, he does,” the Beast agrees. “Elkie smells like hot metal. Cawl like a wet dog. Shirah like rotten meat. Once you cleaned him up, I could barely smell Hardy at all. I figure that’s ‘cause he smells like me.” The Beast pauses and watches me. “He’s not a threat.”

“I don’t understand. I thought Elkie said when Shirah called the Hunt, all Furyan males would answer. If Hardy answers, isn’t he a threat?”

The Beast shakes his head. “Hardy won’t answer ‘cause Shirah don’t smell any better to him than she does to me.”

“Is there something different about Hardy’s bio-chemistry?”

The Beast chuckles. “Not that I can tell.”

“Then why doesn’t Shirah smell right to him? Or you?”

“’Causa you. Haven’t you noticed? Every time you get close to him, he starts scentin’ like Ctyren after a grub. Cawl does some, too, or he did until he had sex with Avvy. Pretty sure she’s all he’s smellin’ now.”

No, I hadn’t noticed. I was careful to keep my distance from Hardy after that first meal where I startled him. I didn’t notice him scenting me while I tended him either, but I was distracted by the state of his feet.

“Why is he scenting me? Is it because of the baby?”

The Beast shrugs. “You’ve always smelled good to me. Got stronger after you got pregnant, but it was there from the start. Only thing that smelled good to me in that fuckin’ flying tomb.”

“Do you think it’s because I was untrue to Damalis in my heart?” This is still a source of some shame to me: that I reverted to my birth religion so quickly after Zhylaw’s death.

“Think it’s because you didn’t fuck yourself up inside. You know what most Necro women smell like to me? A salt pan. Dry desert. Avvy’s the only one who doesn’t, an’ you an’ I both know that’s ‘cause she never Converted. But she never smelled right to me. You do. That’s what Hardy’s smellin’.”

“Because I’m fertile?”

“’Cause you’re Daixian?” The Beast shrugs. “Just know you smell right.”

I consider this, and remember the Elemental’s admonition, that I counter Shirah like for like. If my secret weapon against Shirah’s misery is scent, then I will use that weapon to its fullest.

I finish bathing the Beast, and clean myself cursorily, but do not thoroughly wash my neck, armpits or groin. I know from hunting that those are the places on a human that smell the most strongly. I rinse myself, but do not use soap or any artificial scent. Let us see if that enhances my weapon.

It certainly seems to work on the Beast, who pulls me down into his lap and strips off the bathing robe in three impatient jerks. He buries his face in my neck while he makes love to me, and I am careful once we are done to just rinse the sweat off my skin. I want the Furyans to smell me, but I don’t want everyone else to.


	18. Chapter 18

Our new routine includes another nap after bathing and making love, which I like very much, since there is nothing sweeter than sleeping with a sated Beast. When we wake, he spends a long time stroking my belly. As Furya’s sun begins to set, we rise and the Beast turns to the business of ruling Zibon. He meets with his commanders, after their evening meal and our breakfast. Then he listens to reports from legionnaires and technicians, before he delegates the many tasks involved in running a community of twelve hundred. 

No one objects to the changes in the Beast’s schedule, and I wonder if the Beast will start a new fashion of sleeping during the day, like the siestas of Old Earth. It perhaps helps that the Beast has always resisted any rigid protocol, so those he leads are used to him doing things at odd times of day.

It also helps that the Beast smiles and offers words of encouragement rather than barked commands. Whether it is the imprisonment of the Furyans, or our wedding, or his new schedule and diet, that has wrought such an improvement in his mood, I do not know. But I intend to ensure that it continues.

In this crusade, I find two allies. One expected. Nazya, who notices everything without being noticed herself, rearranges our chambers to accommodate the changes in the Beast’s schedule. She sets the great lens to darken during the day so that we can sleep. She replaces the bowl of fruit on the Beast’s desk with a basket of _gles_ , tiny, green, native fruit which is just coming into season. The bouquets of Caprune roses that usually decorate our chamber and the bath disappear, and although I miss my roses, I soon replace them with planters of native flowers, night-blooming hellenica and the poisonous but scented belk that the Beast likes in his tea, once the Beast lets me return to my garden.

Which he does on the third day.

The unexpected ally is the Furyan Hardy. On the second day, he joins us in the bath covered in dried blood, which I learn is from an Echar, a massive slug-like creature the legionnaires have found in the forests. The Beast grunts his approval, and I realize that the Beast has not been able to hunt while he has been dealing with Shirah and the Furyans. That Hardy has taken this burden off the Beast without being asked makes me warm to him. That he adjusts his schedule over the coming days so that he rises when we do, hunts at night and returns with new, nocturnal prizes to enrich the Beast’s diet, warms me to him even more. His feet heal quickly, and I turn my attention to the terrible scars on his wrists and back, revealed when we finally coax him into the bath. I do not count aloud, nor let any emotion show on my face as I rub a softening salve into them, but I count over a hundred scars. Some cut through others, so they must have been done over time, opening old marks while laying down new. The scars are long and thin, but not smooth, as though the lash that made them was ragged, or barbed. After he leaves us, I climb into the Beast’s lap, turn my face into his neck and cry with sympathetic pain for what Hardy must have suffered. The Beast soothes me and it is only on the third day, after I have stopped crying, that he mentions that the scars on Hardy’s wrists and ankles look like the marks of crucifixion, like the ancient Savior of Old Earth.

I cannot look Hardy in the eye when he joins us at the evening meal that night. He sits next to me, which he has started doing since I began tending him, and offers a few soft comments that I try to respond to, but find myself choking, envisioning him hanging on a cross, pinioned through wrists and ankles, while he slowly suffocates.

Hardy rises without finishing his meal, and the Beast leaves the table abruptly, in mid-conversation, and follows the Furyan. The Beast returns a few minutes later and asks me for tea, which I make studiously, aware that I have not been as attentive to the Beast as I should be, distracted by my sympathy for the Furyan.

Because I am focusing on the tea, and because he is as silent as the Beast, I do not see or hear Hardy return until he leans over me. I feel the heat of his body at my back. The lightest brush of his cheek and lips against my ear. I hear him take a deep breath, scenting me as the Beast says he does, before he says, “I don’t think about any of that anymore. So you don’t have to, either.”

He strokes his hand down over my hair before he withdraws and makes a swift exit. I look wonderingly at the Beast, still holding the whisk over his half-finished cup of tea.

The Beast nods. “Neither of us wants you upset by our past.”

Is that why he has told me so little of his struggle to survive? Because he does not want my mind filled with such darkness? “I feel too much.”

The Beast’s eyes crinkle in his unsmile. “Never too much, wife.”

He does so like that word.

“But you don’t need to be feelin’ that way. ‘Specially not when he don’t.”

I finish the tea and serve it to him, then lean against his shoulder. He puts his arm around me and strokes my hair, the same warm, gentle touch as Hardy’s.

 

Because I was avoiding Hardy’s eyes, because Elkie has disappeared again, and because Cawl is so wrapped up in Avalyn that I see nothing of either of them, I do not notice the improvement in the Furyans until Hardy joins us in my garden. The Beast has proposed we end our day there. It is an hour before sunrise, when even the insects are sleeping. The Beast is throwing a stick for Ctyren to chase, much to the Bird’s consternation, while I tie up _chawee_ vines so they will grow over an arbor my helpers have built today while we slept. We are less than a quarter kilometer from Zibon, the farthest into the garden the Beast will let me venture for now, although he has agreed we will tour the garden in its entirety soon. Because nothing else is stirring, and because my helpers have laid a path of smooth stones out to the arbor, I hear Hardy approach, and have a moment to observe him.

He moves smoothly and surely, with the Furyans’ predatory grace, and I put that down to his healed feet, which makes me smile. Now that his hair is trimmed, I can see his forehead, which lacks its usual furrows, and his eyes, bright with the reflected light from Furya’s parent planet, which is just setting behind me. His eyes are deep-set naturally, but I am so used to seeing them sunk in shadow, that without them, his eyes almost look protuberant.

“Need any help?” he asks as he nears.

“Yes, please.” I set him to work immediately. The tying left is all over my head and I am glad not to have to strain to reach it. 

I hand him each tie as he needs it. He is a little clumsy with them, not an experienced gardener, and I am pleased the chawee does not have the poisonous thorns of my beloved Caprune roses. When he finishes, I hand him a flask of nectar that we have brought as refreshment, and watch while he drinks. His throat works, but his Adam’s apple and the tendons of his throat do not stand out as much as they did even three days ago, when he showed me his throat in the bath.

“You look well,” I observe.

He finishes his drink, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and gives the flask back to me. “Yeah, I am. Feel good.”

I glance at the Beast, who is playing with Ctyren. The Beast is chuckling at the cub’s antics. He even tickles the Bird as I watch and laughs when it flaps its healing wings at him.

This is the carefree Beast of our travels. The man who used to lie on the green in my garden, picking blades of grass and fitting them between his thumbs to make whistles. Who spent hours reading me poetry, and showed me dozens of star-charts for no reason other than his pleasure in the patterns the stars made. Who loved me so thoroughly and so long that I fainted. 

When he returns with a panting Ctyren and harassed Bird, I say to him, “Shirah’s cycle is finished.”

Both Furyans freeze. The Beast relaxes first, and nods. “I’ll let the Furyans go. You can have your garden back tomorrow.”

“Kill Shirah while you got the chance,” Hardy says. “I’ll do it, you want me to.”

The Beast takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. I know he is considering Hardy’s offer. “Elemental says we’ll lose Liaden if we kill Shirah now.”

 _We_? I am confident the Elemental did not include Hardy in her prediction, and I am bewildered that the Beast does.

“She doesn’t know everything,” Hardy says.

“She’s been right so far. Can’t risk it.” The Beast shakes his head.

“I can take Shirah somewhere,” Hardy offers. “She won’t die, not immediately. There’s water. But no one’ll find her and she’ll starve. Take a couple of weeks.”

“That box canyon to the south-west?” When Hardy nods, the Beast continues. “Yeah, I saw that, too.”

And he clearly thought about leaving Shirah there. “Please don’t do this,” I beg. “She can remain in my garden forever. I don’t mind. But please don’t take her somewhere and leave her to starve.”

I know the Beast is a killer. And it appears that Hardy is just as murderous. But neither man is cruel, not by nature. Doing this will damage both their souls.

They turn to me and before I know what they are doing, I am sandwiched between them. The Beast’s arms come around me. Hardy does not embrace me, but presses his body against my side and lowers his face into my hair. Hardy says, “You don’t need to hear this.”

The Beast chuckles. “Good luck hidin’ anything from Liaden. She’ll worm it outta you eventually.”

“Guess I’m used to doing my own thing,” Hardy says. He breathes warmly into my hair. “Everyone’ll be safer once she’s dead.”

“It will hurt you, both of you, if you kill her like this—”

“I’m not arguing with you, but remember what she was going to turn us into. I’m no one’s dog. She wanted us to kill each other—”

“For the big privilege of bein’ her rapist,” the Beast growls. 

“What?” I ask, having difficulty following them.

“She doesn’t want us. Any of us. That’s why she smells so sour,” the Beast says. “I dunnow if it’s tradition or her hormones that are drivin’ her, but she doesn’t want to be hunted any more than we want to hunt her. She’s puttin’ up a brave front. Underneath, all that fear’s curdled and gone rotten.”

“This is what you would sentence to starve to death?” I ask, but it is more a demand than a question. “A terrified woman who believes her destiny is to be hunted and raped by the victor? This isn’t her fault!”

“She coulda ended it any time. Callum’s more’n willin’,” the Beast responds.

She’s much too proud to give herself to her Guardian. “She’s saving herself,” I say. “As her people and traditions no doubt demand. For a man she fears and hates.”

“She’s saved herself so she can be fucked like a dog. I’m not a dog,” Hardy repeats, and I realize this is some very raw wound. Hardy has kept his briefs on while I have bathed him, so I have seen nothing but the outline of what lies between his legs. I know he is whole, but I do not know what scars he carries there.

I reach up hesitantly, so if he flinches I can remove my unwanted touch. When he doesn’t, I curl my hand around the back of his neck, and reach up with my other hand to hold the Beast the same way. “Her cycle is over. We have a month before the next one. We have time to find a solution that doesn’t involve starving her to death.”

Hardy rests his forehead against my temple, still not embracing me. I sense that would be too much for him to bear. “It could take her a month to starve. You don’t have to understand. Or agree. Just let us do what we need to do.”

 _Us_? When did Hardy and the Beast become an _us_ that excluded me? I let my hands drop as my ire rises.

The Beast throws back his head and roars with laughter. “You’ll learn,” he says, and I think he is addressing Hardy rather than me. “Nothin’s happening tonight. Furyans can go. I’ve got a place to stick Shirah so Liaden can have her garden back. Tell the girls you can do your dancin’ thing. And you’ve pissed her off, so better wait until tomorrow to ask the next question.”

What question? I glare at the two men as they release me and step back. The Beast takes my hand, still chuckling. “Don’t be pissed at me. He said it.”

“You’ve clearly encouraged him. I want to know what is going on.”

The Beast grins, wholly unrepentant. “Have to wait until tomorrow night, _wife_.”

I’m going to ram that word back between his teeth if he doesn’t stop using it like a cudgel.

Hardy doesn’t take my hand, but he moves close again so I know he wants my attention. “I’ve pretty much forgotten how to share,” he says.

“So has Riddick, evidently,” I snap, eliciting a deep chortle from the Beast.

“But I’ll try for you.” He moves away quickly, pulling a long blade out of the sheath at his belt. The knife the Beast gave him when he swore his allegiance. I thought the sharing of blood was merely symbolic, but has it created some deeper bond between the Beast and Hardy? Why has Jarone, who I have seen happily painting corridors and chambers, but scarcely interacting with the Beast, been unaffected? Is it because he is a castrate?

Fear wraps icy fingers around my heart as Hardy stalks off toward the habitable with the knife drawn. Does he go to kill Shirah now? But no, he angles to the east, toward a branch of the Anzoa. When he reaches the river, he wades in without hesitation and swims across with sure strokes.

“He’s gonna need water a lot colder than that,” the Beast remarks. He shifts his hold from my hand to my shoulder, and steers me back down the path to Zibon. 

“When did you two become so close?” I ask, still resentful of a bond that does not include me.

“We’re not really close. Just understand each other,” the Beast says. “You’re right, about the blood. Woke somethin’ in him. Somethin’ that shouldn’t have been sleepin’ but he was too fucked up to know it.”

“He told you this?”

“I felt it. There ain’t a lot of words for what Hardy’s feelin’. What any of us are feelin’. But I understand.”

“But I don’t?”

The Beast tucks me against his side and pulls my head onto his shoulder. “You understand better’n any of us. You knew somethin’ was wrong before I did. Kept askin’ me about it, but I didn’t know how to explain. Hardy doesn’t, either.”

The curse of loving a man of few words. “Please stop teasing me and tell me what his next question is.”

“I’m not teasin’. This is serious.” The Beast shakes his head. “But it’s his question. He needs to ask it.”

“Has he already asked you?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you say?”

“Said he needed to ask you.”

Furyans, maddening, all of them.

 

We watch the sunrise through the great lens in the galley. There are already a number of legionnaires, technicians and courtiers filling the long tables. The Beast leads me to join Faz and a group of legionnaires at a table with a good view of the sunrise. Gvenne is there, sitting with a legionnaire whom she introduces as Leto, and she greets the news that we will be dancing in my garden tonight with open delight.

While we eat, the Beast discusses releasing the Furyans with Faz and several other legionnaires. They listen to the Beast, and when he is finished, offer their own opinions, more hesitantly than the Beast’s commanders, to be sure, but without fear. No legionnaire would ever have spoken to Zhylaw so openly.

An opinion that is offered more than once is that we should eliminate the Furyans now. “If they’re not with us, they’re against us,” a legionnaire with a y-shaped scar down his cheek says.

The Beast nods. “Not sure whether they’re with us or not, yet. Or whether we want ‘em with us. They don’t got much to offer.”

The legionnaires, who respect skill and strength more than wisdom and experience, nod. 

“The old ones can go home,” the Beast continues. “We know where they are, an’ they know we can end them at any time. They know the planet, so they might still come in handy, if we come across somethin’ we haven’t see before, like some new disease.”

The legionnaires nod, respecting their Lord Marshal’s wisdom, at least.

“Faz, take a detail and four skimmers and fly ‘em back to their caves. Shirah stays here. Hamall, move her down to G-Six. Lock her in. No one in or out. Permanent guard.”

“Should there be a backdoor, like Lady Liaden’s garden?” Faz asks.

The Beast shakes his head. “She didn’t try that one. Too wary. She won’t give us an excuse to ghost her.”

The legionnaires nod in agreement.

When we finish breakfast, the Beast says to me, “One more stop before bed.”

I expect him to return to the bath, since he was sweating lightly after playing with Ctyren, but instead he leads me down into the lower levels of Zibon, near the hangar, to a huge chamber filled with the hard, dark edges of Necromonger metal.

“What do we do here?” I ask.

The Beast rubs his chin. “See what needs doin’. We got so many machines on the go now, ‘bots, skimmers, floaters. Mad Scientist’s even made a couple of walkers to patrol the shock wall. They all break down, and the Engineers got their hands full already running Zibon, they don’t have time to repair everything. So I set up a rota, couple of days ago, for anyone with mechanical skills. This is my shift.”

“ _You_ took a shift?”

He chuckles. “Vaako said the same thing. I like to keep my hand in. Means I spend some of my time with the do-ers, rather than the talkers.”

Which is why he takes reports directly from the legionnaires and technicians, I realize, and listens when they offer their opinions. Although he has preserved the Necromonger chain of command, he has also fostered relationships all the way down to the meanest legionnaire. 

“More they know me,” the Beast says in response to my unspoken thought. “Less likely they are to try to kill me.”

“Yes, of course.”

“You don’t gotta stay with me. Go to bed if you’re tired—”

I’m not. “I would rather stay with you. And you know I have few mechanical skills, but I am perfectly willing to learn.”

He smiles broadly.

 

The Mad Scientist turns out to be Inker, who we find under a bizarre-looking pile of machinery. There are six jointed legs jutting from a squat metal body, and what appears to be an organic mass growing in the top. It looks like nothing so much as a brain-spider, and I tell Inker so when he emerges from under the monstrosity.

He chuckles. “Ugly-isn’t-it? But-you’ll-come-to-love-it,” he says in his rapid-fire way.

“ _What_ is it?” I ask.

“Water-mixer-for-the-garden. For-the-parts-the-irrigation-system-can’t-reach.”

I shake my head in wonder. “Inker, I cannot thank you enough.”

He gives me a courtly little bow, and a grin so wide it splits his thin face. “Got-something-for-Riddick-too,” he says. “I-know-you-like-to-ride-alone.”

The Beast lifts his head from inspecting the hideous brain-spider. “Yeah?”

Inker leads us to the back of the metalshop, where something that could be the bastard child of a hover-sled and a skimmer is under construction. It has massive engines at the back, behind a low-slung seat. Handles at the front are clearly for guidance. Sleek fins jut from the bottom of the machine at front and back. A partially assembled canopy tops it.

The Beast claps Inker on the back. “Hover bike. You just earned yourself a raise.”

Inker grins. “Schematics-are-there.” He indicates a free-standing holo-board, which is currently powered down. “If-you-want-to-work-on-it-some.”

The Beast’s eyes rove over the machine, which although less ugly than the water-mixer, looks more powerful than beautiful. “I will,” he says slowly. “I’ll come down tomorrow when I’m not on shift and help you finish it. But now I’m on the clock. Better do what I’m not gettin’ paid for.”

I can tell he is torn. He wants to finish the hover bike so that he can enjoy it. But it is a luxury, not a necessity. He delays the gratification of his own desires in order to fulfill the needs of the community.

I have always known that the Beast was a true Lord Marshal. What I did not know was how deeply he had taken the role into his heart.

We return to the front of the shop, where there are many dissembled machines. Inker crawls back under the water-mixer, while the Beast activates a lens and reads through a list. “Here’s one,” he says. “You and me can fix that before bed.”

He finds the broken machine, which he tells me is part of a skimmer’s engine. I help him gather the tools he will need, then hand them to him as he requires them. I watch closely, and before he is done, am able to offer some small assistance tightening bolts as he puts the part back together. He hands me a cloth to wipe grease off my fingers, then takes it and wipes the grease off his own. “Couple more shifts, you’ll be an Engineer,” he says.

I shake my head at him. “ _You_ could be an Engineer.”

“I just know what I picked up here‘n there. ‘Sides, Lord Marshal gets to ride in these when they’re fixed. Rather be the Lord Marshal.”

That’s the first time I’ve heard him refer to his title with anything like approval.

“Since I’m the Lord Marshal’s _wife_ , I’m very pleased to hear that.”

He chuckles and gathers me up in his arms for a kiss.

 

When we rise at sunset, Nazya is waiting for in my wardrobe. She must have passed through our bedchamber to get there, as there is no other access through Zibon’s stone walls, but neither the Beast nor I heard her. Truly, she is a Wraith.

“The woman Shirah wants to see you,” she tells me. “She has asked the guard several times, and he passed the message on to Caden. Don’t go, Mistress. She only means you harm.”

“Riddick would not allow it in any event,” I say, sitting in my chair and beginning to brush out my hair.

“What won’t I allow?” the Beast asks from the doorway.

I glance at Nazya in my mirror. She rolls her eyes and takes the brush to continue the task, while I brave the Beast. 

“Shirah wishes to meet with me.”

“No.”

“As I said.”

The Beast blows out a long breath. “You want to meet with her?”

“I’m curious to hear what she has to say. Aren’t you?”

“No.”

Of course not.

“I could take Hardy with me,” I offer. “She will say nothing in front of you, so it is pointless for you to accompany me. But she has no reason to suspect Hardy.” Shirah surely does not know of the odd bond that has formed between the Beast and the other Furyan in the days of her captivity.

The Beast chews this over for a moment, literally, his mouth working as though trying to swallow something unpalatable. “Okay,” he says finally. “In your garden, where you got the advantage an’ she can’t corner you.”

“Gladly.” It will give me a chance to see if any damage has been done to my garden.

“Caden and I will accompany the First Wife,” Nazya says stiffly.

“I would be happy to have you with me,” I respond. “So long as you do not call me _First Wife_ again.”

“Why not?” The Beast frowns thunderously at me.

“Because it implies there will be a second,” I say.

“No, it don’t, an’ I like _First Wife._ Think I’ll make that official.”

I give him the full measure of my displeasure in my gaze.

He chuckles and heads toward the door to the bathing chamber.

Nazya is doing something more intricate than anything my day could possibly warrant to my hair, but it does not prevent her from flapping around me like the Bird when tickled while she protests that nothing Shirah could say is worth hearing.

“Nazya, please,” I protest. I pluck at something she’s set in a tiny braid at my temple and discover it is a gray pearl. “Where did you get this?”

“They were in one of your boxes. There are dozens of them. Aren’t they beautiful? See how they look against your hair?”

I do see and they are beautiful: like drops of moonlight. I hand the pearl back to her and let her replace it. 

“How do you know that Shirah has nothing important to say until we hear it?” I ask.

“Because she means you harm, so she will speak nothing but lies.”

I don't think that follows. “I think she would rather use the truth as a weapon, and I am curious to see what she thinks she holds.” When Nazya begins to flap again, I hold up a hand. “I do not intend to let her cut me with it.”

“We won’t let her,” Nazya says fiercely.

When she finishes her design, I stand and hug her. “I do not say it often enough. I value your friendship and support more than you could ever know.”

Nazya blushes and gives me a soft pat on the back. When I release her, she takes a gauzy, layered shift out of the wardrobe and holds it out for me to slip into. 

I shake my head. “I’m going to bathe Riddick and the Furyan Hardy now. That will show too much when wet.”

Nazya blushes furiously, but holds it out, insistent. “They will both appreciate that.”

“It’s not appropriate.”

“Nadie’s dresses show twice as much, even dry. Lord Riddick asked me to find you something other than the tents you’ve been wearing. This will look very well on you, and it matches the pearls.”

A tent?! My bathing robes are loose and modest, but they are hardly tents. 

_They’re fucking tents_ , the Beast says into my mind. _Wear the dress._

Grimacing, I shrug off the gown I’ve worn to bed and allow Nazya to drop the shift over my head. It is shorter than I remembered, perhaps because of the distance it now has to travel over my belly, falling only to my thighs. The gauze does drape well, and the pearly tone compliments my skin and sets off my dark hair, but it is far too revealing to wear when bathing the two men.

_It’s perfect. Stop fucking around. Hardy’s here. We’re waitin’ for you._

I thank Nazya quickly and go to join the Furyans in the bath.


	19. Chapter 19

As I feared, the gauze becomes translucent when wet, and although there are enough layers over my breasts that it is not indecent, there are fewer over my belly, and each bulge is clearly delineated. I scowl at the Beast as I gesture to the dress.

He leans his head back against the padded rim and smiles. “Perfect,” he says.

I take a file from the row of bathing implements and consider applying it to a tender spot.

“Liaden’s got a favor to ask you,” the Beast says to Hardy, who sits at the other end of the long bath, in very much the same position as the Beast, his arms stretched along the bath’s edge, head back on a cushion, while he waits for me.

Hardy lifts his head and peers at me with one dark eye. “Yeah?”

I set the file back down, pick up a pair of sponges and kneel between the two men. Over the last days, I have developed a method of washing them in tandem, so neither feels slighted and the bath does not become endless. Although I think neither of them would mind the latter. 

“Shirah has asked to meet with me—” I begin.

“No,” Hardy says immediately.

Furyans. At least they are consistent. “I am curious to see what she has to say.”

“You know what comes of curiosity,” Hardy growls.

“Dead cats?” I ask snidely, irritated by both his presumption that he should have any say in what I do, and his genetic stubbornness. 

The corner of Hardy’s mouth quirks. “Her best move is to kill you.”

“Which would endear her to Riddick a great deal, don’t you think?” At the Beast’s high grunt, I moderate my tone. “That is, perhaps, her ultimate goal, but it is unlikely to be accomplished at a meeting now when I am so on my guard. She must know that. She has something specific she wants from me. I want to know what it is.” 

“Have her tell you over those things you Necros use. What do you call them? Lenses.”

“I’m sure that will promote trust and intimacy,” I remark.

“It’s not the worst idea, actually,” the Beast interjects.

“She asked to _meet_ with me—”

“She can ask anythin’ she fucking wants. Don’t mean you have to give it to her,” the Beast says.

“Exactly,” Hardy adds.

I glare at him. “I was going to ask you, as a favor, if you would come with me to the meeting. I see I’m wasting my time.”

Hardy bares his teeth in a growl. “You don’t have to ask me for favors. I’ll go anywhere you want. But you’re not putting yourself in harm’s way just to scratch some mental itch.”

“The idea,” I grit at him through my own teeth. “Was that _you_ would keep me from harm.”

That pulls him up sharply. “You trust me to do that?”

“Yes,” I say gently.

He lets his head drop back onto the cushion. “I can do that.”

“Without killing Shirah,” I say, hopefully as gently.

Hardy gives a humorless chuckle. “I’ll protect you with my life. That’s all I’m promising.”

I could not ask for more. “Thank you. Would you lean forward so I can put the salve on your back?”

He complies, but as he does so, he puts his arm around my waist, and bows his head so his cheek and temple rest against my breast. “I’d never let anything hurt you. Not even me.”

With a glance at the Beast, who nods at me, I cup his head. “I have no fear of either.”

“You don’t know,” he begins brokenly, and I wait, holding my breath, to see what he will say. “The things I’ve done . . . the people I’ve hurt, the ones I left behind . . . just so I could survive.”

I stroke the thick shag of his hair. “There’s no shame in survival, Hardy. You told me you don’t think on what you’ve endured anymore. Neither need you think on those you could not save. They are your past. Your future is here with us.”

“Tell me that, every day,” he whispers, his breath warm through the damp gauze over my breasts. “And I’ll believe you.”

“I will,” I promise.

We finish the bath quietly. Hardy retreats back into his shell and does not touch me again. I do not press him, feeling that he has exhumed more than enough of his ghosts for one day. But when he is clean, shaven, the last healing wounds on his feet re-bandaged, and ready to leave, I take his hand. “Whatever happened, whatever happens, your future is here with us.”

He does not look at me, but he squeezes my hand before he beats one of his hasty retreats.

I turn from watching him leave to find a dripping Beast standing behind me. He scoops me up as though I weigh nothing and carries me out of the bathing chamber. “First,” he says. “If you’re goin’ to wear somethin’ in the bath from now on, it’s this.” 

I roll my eyes, but slide my arms around his neck and kiss his jaw. “And second?”

“Second, you may not be much of an Engineer, but you got a career as a healer if the whole First Wife gig gets stale. When you said you wanted to try to help him, I didn’t give it much hope. Figured maybe you could fix him up some. Bring him back a little. Never thought you’d domesticate him.”

“He’s not a dog,” I remind the Beast. “None of you are. I do not seek to domesticate him. Only to give him hope that the future can be brighter than the past.”

The Beast turns his head and gives me a deep, heated kiss as he sets me down on our bed. “You know you give me that hope, too.”

“I hope so.” I open my arms to him and glow with delight when he lowers his full weight onto me. So brightly the entire room lights with the Collar’s blue glow.

 

Our new schedule makes setting a time to meet with Shirah difficult. A difficulty that is enhanced when I retire to my garden after our first meal and survey the damage. Most of it is unintentional. Thirty people living in a space not designed for human habitation carries consequences. I can see that the garden ‘bots have started to make repairs. Fresh sod has been laid in stripes on the tattered green where thirty beds stood. New stones have been set in the stream-bed, disturbed by thirty pairs of feet. But the ‘bots cannot fix the trampled grasses and flowers where the Furyans strode. Nor refill the empty branches, stripped by hungry hands. 

Nor can they replace the blooms on every single one of my rose bushes, not plucked, but raggedly torn, perhaps with fingernails, so that the stems will wither. The fallen blooms lie blackened, trampled into the dirt. 

Standing amid that wanton destruction, I put my hands over my face and cry.

My tears are short-lived. I know my garden will recover, with time and care. The grasses will grow tall again, and soon the bushes will nod with heavy blooms. By next season, there will be no trace of the damage the Furyans have inflicted, innocently and maliciously. My garden will again be a place of respite and pleasure for all who visit, and the Furyans need never visit again.

Resolved, I turn toward the benches that flank the rose garden, and find the Elemental sitting there, watching me.

“Forgive me for intruding on your grief,” she says.

“You are not intruding. Forgive me for indulging in such foolishness. My garden will recover.”

“It is not foolish to mourn when beauty is despoiled. Why do you think I have gone to such lengths to ensure that the beauty of what you are building with Riddick is protected?”

That makes me smile and I take a seat on the bench next to her. “Have Riddick’s actions turned the tide?”

“I cannot say with certainty. There is still too much in flux. And as ever when dealing with the statistical anomaly that is Riddick, he has introduced new variables that I did not anticipate, which may affect the outcome. Liaden, from one woman to another, one mother to another, I do not envy you the unpredictability of your life with Riddick.”

I laugh. “If there is one thing I know with certainty, it is that my life with Riddick will never be dull.”

The Elemental smiles her knowing smile. “No.” She takes my hand. “What do you think of Riddick’s actions? The changes he has wrought?”

“I think they suit. I am content to be his wife—”

“Yet he has not dismissed his other concubines.”

“No,” I agree. We discussed it, after our wedding night. The Beast was inclined to dismiss Nadie at least, but fearful of what Greer might feel free to do to her if she was no longer cloaked in the Beast’s protection, I asked him not to. “He sees no need to. And he is quite fond of Zetany.”

Aereon gives a small, ladylike snort. “As fond as a brother. She is no concubine to him, now or ever. Nor is the redhead, no matter what she would have everyone think. I do quite like the title of First Wife, though. I do not foresee him ever having another, if that gives you comfort.”

“Surely Shirah will demand marriage,” I say.

“It was you who told me that demanding things of Riddick usually ends badly.”

“Very true. Still true, as you have seen. I doubt Shirah anticipated losing her liberty when she demanded Riddick take the mantle of Furyor.”

Aereon’s smile tips to the wicked. “Are you sure you don’t have some Elemental blood?”

“Very sure. Is it enough?”

Aereon’s smile fades. “No, I don’t think so. Not yet. But each time that Riddick does something I did not anticipate, new possibilities unfold. I did not foresee him marrying you. Or bonding the Furyans to him with blood. I cannot yet calculate all of the ramifications of that. He has introduced an entirely new factor into all of my equations, one I had not even thought had bearing on your situation. Truthfully, it is maddening.”

I try not to laugh at her frustration, but fail. “If it gives you any comfort, I find his designs incomprehensible, and his execution infuriating. He is an impossible man.”

“Which is part of his appeal. Liaden, no one truly knows what the future holds. I calculate; I predict; and I am rarely wrong. But Riddick defies prediction. He has already created potential out of nothingness. I am tempted to stop trying to anticipate him and simply pray that he finds a way to be happy with you.”

That would be a mercy, given her previous predictions. But she led the Beast to a solution that did not involve the slaughter of his birth-people. A solution that I do not think he would have reached on his own. And even if it is only a stop-gap measure, it is one for which I am grateful. “Do you think that is wise?”

Aereon smiles wryly. “It is not in my nature.”

No more than surrender is in the Beast’s. “I will not pretend I have always appreciated your predictions, but without your guidance, I think the Furyans would be dead by now. And although I treasure each and every day with Riddick as though it will be my last, I would very much like it not to be. I dream of growing old with him.”

“I dearly hope you are able to do so—”

Aereon breaks off, looking at something over my shoulder. I remember not to turn abruptly, and then I don’t need to as his scent and heat reach me. Like the Beast’s, but not. There is a subtle difference between them. Like the difference between a black Caprune and a red. A touch more musk. Smoke rather than flame. I do not have the Furyans’ enhanced senses, but I can begin to distinguish between these two men, so alike and yet so different. 

“Aereon, have you met Hardy?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “But I would very much like to.”

I rise and make introductions. Hardy does not offer his hand and Aereon folds hers at her waist after a moment’s hesitation.

“Tell me, were you born on Furya?” Aereon asks.

Hardy growls. “Why do you want to know?”

I touch a placating hand to his forearm, and when he does not flinch or move away, slide my arm through his. “Aereon is from the Elemental race. She calculates—”

“I know who she is, and what she does. She’s why you won’t let me kill Shirah. Why should I tell her anything? She should keep her nose out.”

Yet another point where the Beast and the other Furyan are entirely in accord.

Aereon bows her head. “I see. It was enlightening to meet you, Hardy. I hope we have the opportunity to speak in the future.”

Hardy grunts and with a farewell nod to me, Aereon glides away through my battered garden.

“She means you no harm,” I observe.

“Doesn’t matter what she means, it’s what she does. And what she does hurts. Look at this place. Shirah might as well have stabbed you in the heart.”

I resist the urge to look again, or to succumb to further tears. “I cannot say whether this was Shirah’s doing.” Although I have little doubt that it was. “Like the pain of healing, this is a pain that will pass. The damage can be fixed, and soon it will be as though it never was—”

“It’ll leave scars. Always does.”

I turn to face him and brush my fingertips across the scar under his chin. “Even scars fade with time and care.”

His eyes darken and I wonder if I have gone too far. Touched him too intimately. Reopened too raw a wound.

He takes both of my hands, holds them between us and stares down at them. “Tell me again. What you said.”

“Even scars fade with time and care.”

“The other thing. About the future.”

“Whatever happened, whatever happens, your future is here, with us.”

He nods, and squeezes my hands, then lets me go and backs away from me. “I’ll go get Shirah. Wait here.”

I had not anticipated meeting with her so soon, or without the support of Caden and Nazya. But there is no reason to delay, and I trust Hardy to protect me, even though it still galls a little that I require such protection.

I rub my hands over my belly, sink onto the bench and wait.

 

Hardy returns quickly, leading a woman who looks very different from the furious lioness I feared would spring at the Beast so few days ago. She is still beautiful. Still tall and strong. But she looks diminished. Her golden skin has paled to ash. Her lips are bloodless and her eyes smudged with shadow. She carries herself differently, somehow shrunken and curled, as though protecting her vulnerable midriff. She reminds me of the Beast, on that morning before we went to the beach. And I am reminded that all animals are most dangerous when they are wounded.

I rise off the bench and curtsey to her, determined to show her the courtesy that is the hallmark of my station. “Shirah,” I say in greeting.

Hardy stops Shirah several meters away from me, and positions himself between us. He sinks into a crouch, facing Shirah, takes out two knives, and holds them loosely across his knees.

Shirah dismisses him with a toss of her elaborate braids. “I hear you’re the First Wife now,” she says to me, with a grimace that splits those bloodless lips.

“Riddick has done me that honor.”

Shirah closes her eyes briefly and shakes her head. When she opens them again, there is a spark of the lioness in them. I take a step back and Hardy springs out of his crouch to stand between us.

Shirah sneers at the Furyan male. “I told you, nothing will happen to Liaden. Not by my hand.”

“Hardy, it’s okay. Shirah, perhaps we could walk along the stream?” I gesture towards the watercourse that circles through my garden.

Shirah nods and turns toward the water. Hardy positions himself between us, and after a few steps, I take his arm. He bends his elbow a little to accommodate me, but keeps his hands clenched around the hilts of his knives.

“I suppose I should thank you,” Shirah says. “Even if you say no, it’s still some time out of my cell.”

“I am deeply sorry for your confinement.”

Shirah crosses her arms over her chest and grips her upper arms tightly. “Did you know that’s what they used to call it? When a woman gave birth. Her confinement.”

“No, I did not.” Nor can I see how this has any bearing on the situation.

“They’d lock her away, the men. Board her up in a dark room until she gave birth. So they couldn’t see or hear her suffering.”

Now I see. And I see that Furya’s Guardian has more than a touch of the melodramatic about her. No wonder she decapitated all my roses. “Shirah, we can all see and hear your suffering. What I cannot bear is you inflicting it on these good men—”

She whirls and shouts at me. “Then help me end it!”

Before she even has the words out, Hardy is in motion, sweeping me behind him with one arm and backing us up two meters in long strides. “You stay behind me,” he growls.

I cup my hands around his shoulders. “I am safe. She’s overwrought.”

“Find out what she wants and finish this. Every minute you spend with her is a bad idea.”

Shirah crosses her arms over her chest again and turns back to our path along the stream. “I swear I won’t bite. And that’s all the weapons he’s left me.”

I notice the ragged ends of her fingernails, sunk into the flesh of her upper arms, which look like they have been trimmed to the quick with a knife. 

Slowly, Hardy leads me back to walk beside Shirah.

“Is there a way,” I ask. “That I could help you end this?”

Shirah nods.

“Can you tell me calmly?”

“Could you patronize me less? You’ve won. I know that already. I just don’t know how to give up.”

I bite down on my lip to prevent myself from snapping back at her. Courtesy, I remind myself, is the hallmark of my station. “How may I help you end this?”

“Give me time alone with Riddick.”

“You do not need my permission for that. Riddick does as he pleases.”

“He listens to you. He’s swayed by you. He does things to please you. I’ve seen it.”

Since that is no more than the truth, I nod.

“Ask him to spend time with me. A few hours, that’s all I’m asking.”

I cannot see the harm in asking, although I also cannot see the Beast agreeing. “I will ask.”

Shirah stops in mid-step. “You will?”

“I very much doubt he will agree. And I very much doubt that him spending a few hours with you will make any difference. But it is a simple enough request. I will make it for you.”

“If he would spend some time with me, he would remember.” Shirah looks off into the middle distance, and I do not think she is seeing the denuded rowela grove there. “He would know what I was born knowing.”

“Not likely,” Hardy growls.

I squeeze his arm. “I will ask. Is that all?”

“No.” Shirah turns toward me. Hardy backpedals, thrusting me behind him again. 

I begin to understand how sheep feel when they are herded.

I rub my fingers across the bridge of my nose. “Perhaps you should just tell me. I don’t think we’re going to manage much of a walk at this rate.”

“Very well.” Shirah lifts her chin. “I want you to agree to step aside. If Riddick remembers, if he takes the cloak and spear, I want you to leave. Take that half-breed you’re carrying and go. Far away, where he’ll never see you again.”

Knowing already what that particular future holds, I nod. “I agree.”

Hardy jolts. “Liaden, no.”

I pat his shoulders. “My friend, if Riddick becomes the Furyor, there will be nothing left for me. I do not want to watch him fall.”

Shirah looks as though all the air has been sucked out of her lungs. She takes a deep, rasping breath, and her eyes light with that lioness glow. “You agree. You would go,” she breathes.

“I would go,” I say. “But understand this. Riddick does listen to me. He is swayed by me, and he does do things to please me. And I will do anything, say anything, to keep him from becoming Furyor. So before you decide to pit yourself against me, consider well. There are other paths open to you. Paths which do not involve calling the Hunt. Paths which do not include Riddick. Consider these paths carefully, before you decide which one to tread.”

Shirah gapes at me, and I am not sure she has heard anything beyond my agreement to step aside, should she successfully coerce Riddick into becoming Furyor.

“You should consider this as well,” I say. “Riddick listened to me when I begged him not to slaughter your people. He was swayed by me into imprisoning you rather than murdering you as he planned. And he will not starve or sterilize you because he knows these things will not please me. I have interceded for you over and over, because I pitied you—”

“I don’t need your pity!” she screams, her hands rearing up into claws.

I feel Hardy vibrate at the threat. I pat his shoulders again to keep him calm and nod at the Furyan woman. “Very well, you no longer have it. I will not intercede again. Follow this path at your peril. Every step of the way, my hand will be raised against you.”

She spits on the ground between us, close to Hardy’s feet, then whirls and stalks away downstream.

I feel the tremor that passes through Hardy before he forces out, “Let. Me. Kill. Her.”

I reach around his broad shoulder and place my hand over his heart. “If you can do it without remorse, without scar, then do as you will. But please do not kill her because you think she has insulted me.”

“Do I still have a future with you, if I do it?”

I lean against his back and rest my forehead, which has begun to pound, on the knob at the base of his neck. “That’s a question only you can answer. I can only say that it is far harder for me to soften scars on your soul than on your skin.”

His shoulders sag. “How many scars before I’m too ugly for you to look at?”

“I can’t answer that, either. I can only say that you are not too ugly now.”

He nods. “Stay here. I’m going to take her back. Do you have your knife, in case she tries to circle back?”

“Yes.” I have worn Hannelore on my hip, the first time I have ever had to wear her in my garden, but I fear it will not be the last.

“Good.” Hardy touches the back of my hand, still cupped over his heart, and when I let my hand fall, he explodes into a full run, racing down the watercourse after Shirah. The Beast is capable of similar explosive motion, and I hope that our daughter will inherit the Furyans’ abilities. I rub my hand down my belly, which is aching, although I have not pulled anything. If I did not have to stay on my guard, I would sit down by the river, take off my sandals and rest my feet in the cool water, as the Beast and I did many times while traveling.

But we are no longer alone, and I must stay on my guard, because this new home we have found has come with more danger and uncertainty than I ever could have imagined.

 

I fulfill my promise to Shirah, despite her discourtesy. The Beast’s response is as curt as it is predictable.

“No.”

I sigh and take another of Tirea’s gowns out of my wardrobe while I consider what to wear for dancing. The Beast stands behind me in the doorway, his huge hands pressed against the frame, and I remember him standing just so, looking like he would tear the very walls out of his way, the first time he watched me undress.

Hardy sits on the floor of my dressing chamber, out of my way, his back against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest. He’s cleaning non-existent dirt from under his fingernails with the point of his knife. He hasn’t spoken a word since returning to me in the garden, and he hasn’t let me stray more than a few centimeters out of reach. I still don’t know whether he escorted Shirah back to her prison or killed her. From the furrows in his forehead, I guess the former, but I have not yet plucked up the courage to ask.

“Why would you even ask me?” the Beast growls.

“Because I said I would.”

“Before she spit on you,” Hardy murmurs.

He’s not helping. “ _At_ me, and it was more at you than me, so I took no offense.” Which isn’t quite true, although I would like to be forgiving enough to make it so. “Riddick,” I say, turning back to the Beast, who is frowning even more deeply than Hardy. “What harm can come of spending a few hours with her?”

“Dunnow. That’s why I’m not doin’ it. Not that one.” He nods at the dress I hold between my hands, which is a rather stark black and white, I admit, but is of a very light fabric, which I would appreciate, particularly if the dancing becomes vigorous. “Where’s the pink one?”

“The one that makes me look like an exploding lily?”

On the floor, Hardy makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a suppressed chuckle.

“You don’t look like an exploding lily. Wear the pink one. I like that one.”

“Very well.” I return the black and white dress to the rack and remove the pink one. “If you gentlemen would excuse me?”

The two men look at each other. Neither of them moves.

I wait. The Beast shifts his stance into a more comfortable, less-wall-threatening pose, but does not leave. Hardy continues cleaning his fingernails, not quite looking at me, but not looking away, either, and certainly not moving.

The hallmark of my station is under serious threat today.

I clear my throat.

“I’ve seen it before,” the Beast says.

“Wet dress you were wearing before didn’t leave much to the imagination,” Hardy says. “Not that I don’t got a good imagination.”

“Get. Out,” I enunciate. “Both of you. I am not a prize heifer to be put on display.”

“Kind of a prize,” the Beast offers.

“Get! Out!”

My ringing tones bring Nazya from wherever she was hiding and she shoos both men out of my dressing chamber and then out of the adjoining bedchamber as well. I can hear their laughter long after the outer door snicks closed.

Furyans. They would all benefit from an occasional, good, hard kicking.


	20. Chapter 20

I am relieved to find my garden free of Furyans when I return to it, clad in the exploding lily dress, with my hair still piled up in Nazya’s swirls and pearls, a style I like so much I may have her do it every day. 

Sanjula and Tirea rise from a bench set near the doorway when I enter. Sanjula immediately comes and hugs me. “I can’t believe they did this,” she says.

“I expected it,” I say, although I could not have anticipated the malicious beheading of my roses. “Everything is fixable. Give me a few weeks and all will bloom again.”

And if scars remain, as Hardy has predicted, I will be the only one who knows where they are.

When Sanjula releases me, Tirea steps forward and hugs me. “I don’t know how you can be so calm. If someone destroyed something I’d worked on for so long, I’d kill them.”

I flare my eyes in mock fear. “Then I will be very careful not to tear my dress.”

Tirea shakes her head. “Seriously, Li, how can you stand it? They did this, and then Sirel said that that Furyan woman demanded you leave Zibon? How dare she?”

That tale spread fast. There were guards stationed at every door during my meeting with Shirah, and the garden’s sole monitor was on, but I did not think there was such interest in what Shirah had to say that the tale would be repeated.

“You wouldn’t go, would you, Li?” Sanjula asks.

I shake my head. “Please, don’t think on it. Riddick would never allow it to happen.”

I sound certain, but I am not. The Beast of that morning before we went to the beach was so conflicted. So wounded and confused. He might have let it happen. If we hadn’t gotten away from Shirah’s toxic chemistry, if he hadn’t confessed his pain and let me help him, I shudder to think of what might have happened. What might still happen next month if we haven’t found a solution by then.

“Let’s talk about something else,” Tirea says. “What’s it like to be married?”

“Very much like it was when I was a concubine,” I say. “But with more jewelry.” I wiggle the wedding ring with my thumb, and grimace when the edges of the scales bite into the soft pad of my palm.

“Wife has such a ring to it, though,” Sanjula says. “Daray’s started talking about it, but we wouldn’t want that old Furyan to do it. Do you think Riddick would hear our vows?”

The Beast has started yet another trend. “I think he would be delighted.” And even if he isn’t, it’s small penance for his teasing while I was dressing.

“What about Zetty and Nadie, though?” Tirea asks. “I thought about inviting Zetty tonight but I wasn’t sure if you’d want her here.”

I should have thought about inviting Zetty, and I feel a faint burn of shame for so neglecting my protégé. 

“Bet you didn’t think of inviting Nadie,” Sanjula says with a giggle.

“She couldn’t possibly dance in those dresses she’s had me make. She can barely walk. Ugh, they’re indecent,” Tirea says.

The Beast thought so, too, but I refrain from throwing fuel on that fire. “I would be delighted if Zetty could join us. I should have asked her myself. Nadie, I would prefer to avoid. She is still the Lord Marshal’s concubine and I would not slight her if others want her company, but she grates on me.”

“She grates on everyone,” Sanjula says. “I invited a few more people tonight, so I think we can do three triples, even without Elkie. Li, do you know how long she’ll be gone?”

I shake my head. “She didn’t tell anyone she was going. Some of her crew are still here,” I say, thinking of Inker in the metalshop. “So I’m sure she’ll be back.”

“I know what the Lord Marshal says about her, but she is fun to be around.” Sanjula giggles.

I readily agree.

As we’re giggling together, the garden door opens behind me and Halle enters with three women I don’t know. The trickle becomes a stream and soon twenty women have gathered on the green in my garden. I make introductions to those I know, and am introduced to those I don’t. Amongst those I know, I am delighted to see the healer Cays, and I greet her with a hug. Cays has brought her apprentice, a healer younger even than Zetany and twice as shy. There are three more pilots, two Weavers who work for Tirea, three technicians, two courtiers still in their court gowns, which they will have trouble dancing in, and a tired-looking assistant to Chef that I haven’t met before. Gvenne has returned, and she joins my trio. When I try to bring Cays into my group, she glances uncertainly at her apprentice.

“Come both of you,” I say. “There will have to be two foursomes, given our numbers. We will step on each other’s toes a great deal, but at least we’ll all take our shoes off first this time.”

Cays and her apprentice look bewildered until a giggling Gvenne explains our previous misadventure.

Sanjula sets up a portable lens on one of the benches that flank the green, and selects music similar to the last time we danced, although there is a lovely, lilting vocal to it. While Sanjula explains the steps to the newcomers, I listen to the simple lyrics and when the singer starts on the second chorus, I join her.

I am listening to the music, confident already in the steps of the dance, so I only notice that everyone is watching me when the song finishes and I fall silent.

Gvenne begins clapping, and the other women follow suit. I flush in embarrassment. 

“Would you teach us the song, Li?” Tirea asks from the trio at my right.

“Of course. There are just a few phrases.” I teach them the words. Sanjula resets the music, and I lead them in singing along while Sanjula calls out the steps and we begin to dance.

The song is simple, but quite lovely, sweet and stirring. A love song, I think, listening to it the second time, although not obviously so. It swells from twenty throats, some in tune, some not, but no matter. It fills my garden with sound.

I hope that in her prison, Shirah can hear us. I hope the whole universe can hear us. _Hear the music we are making_ , I think fiercely. _We new Furyans. Hear the joy we bring to this broken world. We will take it, and heal it, despite all that stands in our way._

I only become aware of the tears rolling down my face when the song finishes and Gvenne removes her palm from mine to pat my cheeks. She is crying, too.

I smile at her. “That song is moving, isn’t it?”

She nods.

A new song begins, one without any words, and Sanjula calls out the steps. I hum along to the tune, but do not try to recapture the magic of that chorus. I do not need to. I can still see it faintly flickering on every blade of grass and leaf of my garden. I can still feel it singing sweetly in my heart.

 

The Beast arrives to collect me just as Sanjula’s portable lens flickers red to signal curfew. He surveys my garden as the other women say their farewells. He must have seen the damage in my mind, but the knowledge that I could repair it must have offset the physical impact of the waste. I see the reality of it sink deep into him. I see his jaw work, his nostrils flare as he looks around. 

Gvenne is one of the last to leave, and before she does, she hugs me and says, “I’m not much of a gardener, but if you want any help fixing this, I’d be glad to do anything I can.”

I realize I don’t know what Gvenne does, or whether I would be taking her away from some critical task by accepting her assistance. “If you can spare an hour after dinner tomorrow night, I would welcome the help.”

“You’ll have as many hands as you need,” the Beast growls from beside me.

Gvenne looks faintly terrified, curtseys to the Beast, and leaves at a dignified run.

I glance at the Beast wryly. “Scaring off my earnest assistants is not the best way to facilitate repairing my garden.”

The Beast looks as ready to explode as Hardy did earlier, and I fear what will happen to Shirah if he does break into a run. “Hardy said it was bad, but I didn’t know about the roses. I should’ve had them cut off her fuckin’ hands. I’m goin’ to fuckin’ kill her. I don’t give a fuck what the Elemental says.”

Indeed. I loop my arm through his and rest my head on his shoulder, which is as hard as stone under my temple. “The wonderful thing about caring for things rare and wild,” I say. “Is how quickly they grow back. Give me a few weeks and it will be as it was. Although perhaps I will replace this with shorter grass. That purple grass from Jeranda would look nice.” I rub my bare foot over the grass, which is somewhat matted by the passage of twenty pairs of dancing feet.

The Beast turns and takes my face in his hands. “She doesn’t get to do this to you.”

I put my hands over his. “I think in this instance she does. They’re just flowers, Riddick. They’ll grow back. If you kill her, she won’t, but some dark seed of vengeance may be planted. I will not lose you over a few roses. Please, let it pass.”

He strains his head back, as though I had placed some yoke on him. “No.”

I pat his hands, and remember all of my promise to Shirah. “Do as you will. I said I would not intercede on her behalf again, and I won’t.”

“You won’t?” he asks.

“No. She said she did not want my pity, so she shall not have it. I require no retribution for the insult to my garden, but if you choose to take it, I will not stop you.”

I feel the Beast ruffle through my mind. His mental touch is gentle, despite his anger. And it thrills me to that deep core the Beast always reaches. Silvery light flickers from my Collar and limes every surface in my garden.

“You said that to her, huh? That you’d fight her every step of the way?”

“Yes.”

“Thought you kept tellin' me to avoid a fight.”

“No longer. She threatens the happiness of those I love. Whether she does it intentionally or not, whether she does it from fear or due to forces she cannot control, I will not abide it. I will pit myself against her. I will stand against her and her Hunt and every other cruelty she seeks to visit on you, and if she tries to force you to be Furyor by calling the Hunt, I will maim her so badly she will never run again.”

The Beast smiles down at me. “See, that’s my Daixian. Right there. I never even thought of hamstringing her.”

“I‘m inventive when roused.”

The Beast laughs, and I know he is thinking not of my rage, but of my passion. “You certainly are. C’mon, show me.”

He leads me out of my garden and I close its destruction out of my mind the way I close the door behind us. I focus on the loving care that will bring about its recovery, and on the man, just as rare and wild as anything I have ever planted, who has already responded so well to my loving care.

 

Hardy does not join us again that night, even after we rise from our bed, and when he does not appear for his bath, I query the Beast about his absence.

“Hunting,” the Beast says. “Told me he was goin’ yesterday, after you wouldn’t let us watch you change. Figured he’d be back by now, but he was goin’ to hunt Antyon, and there ain’t that many of them close to the shock wall anymore.”

I roll my eyes at his reference to yesterday’s teasing as I sponge off three small scratches on his shoulder. “How did you get these?” I did not notice them before we retired this morning.

The Beast glances down at his arm as though unaware of the injury. He shrugs. “Playin’ too rough with the cub, or your fuckin’ Bird. That thing’s started peckin’ me.”

Probably because he’s been tormenting it. “I was thinking it is time to teach it to fend for itself.”

The Beast snorts. “Good luck. You know we’re never getting’ rid of that thing. You might as well name it. Tell you somethin’, though. I’ve seen them in the wild. They love those snails. Find him a grove of trees where there are a bunch of those snails and I bet he’ll figure it out himself.”

I tuck away that bit of information, as well as the information that the Beast has figured out the gender of my charge, when I have not. “Do I have time to take him outside tonight?” We have not discussed what our night holds, and I have avoided making any plans of my own, except the hour of gardening with Gvenne, so that I can fit my schedule to the Beast’s. Although the threat to his well-being is currently contained, I have no illusions that it is over, and until I am sure it is, I will stay by his side.

He knocks my hip with his knee. “You will, huh?”

“Yes.”

“I’m not sayin’ that whatever was fuckin’ with me was a good thing, but I like how it’s turned out.”

I am pleased we’ve found a silver lining to the very dark cloud hanging over him.

“Like that you found your claws again, too,” he says. “That mighta been the worst part of it. Not feelin’ myself changin’ into somethin’ I knew I’d hate, but watchin’ it tear you down.”

I lean over and kiss him tenderly. “I am more sure of myself now. I feared your malaise might be a sign of lack of contentment with me.” At his high grunt, I continue, “I am reminded that there is never anything to fear, but fear itself. And as long as I do not let my fear rule me, there is no threat I cannot face.”

“True.” He grunts, low and approving. “Nothin’ we can’t face together, you, me an’ Hardy.”

I drop the sponge. “Excuse me?”

He shrugs, leans his head back and closes his eyes.

Hardy did not ask the next question – whatever it may be – before he left to hunt monsters. I am still at a complete loss to understand what is happening between the three of us, or why the Beast seems so accepting of it.

“Riddick, would you please tell me what is going on? I understand it’s difficult to explain, but I am at the heart of this, and I feel myself floundering. I do not know how to treat him—”

“Treat him like you’d treat me.”

“He is _not_ you.” 

The Beast shrugs. “Treat him however feels right.”

“It does not feel right to undress in front of him—”

“That was just playin’.”

I know that, but I also know there is frequently a serious note to his teasing. “Do you want me to,” I pause, unsure of what I am asking. “Do you want me to be intimate with him?”

The Beast shrugs again, but I see a faint ripple of tension tighten the muscles of his bare chest. “D’you want to be?”

“I'm asking you. I am your wife. I am yours and yours alone. If you wish to . . . share me with others, for your pleasure, I will do as you wish. But please do not leave me to try to divine your desires. I cannot guess at your intent.”

His muscles relax and he grins, although his eyes remain closed. “You do a pretty good job of it usually.”

“Please, Riddick, help me this time.”

“Not yet. I wanna see how this plays out on its own.”

Sweet Xia, he’s worse than the Elemental.

He chuckles at my resentful thought. “She’s been askin’ me all sorts of questions about him. She missed him out entirely. She’s told me all the probabilities, Cawl, Greer, Booth. She’s even got some fuckin’ scenario involvin’ Elkie that I don’t get. But she never figured Hardy would play any part in it. Then my blood woke him up and fucked her stats all to hell.” He laughs, then his tone darkens. “Exactly where they belong.”

“She asked if he was born on Furya. Why would that be important?”

The Beast shrugs carelessly. “He wasn’t. His mother was pregnant, but she got off-world before the shit went down. He was born on Gallin.”

Where part of the Armada is now headed, to cleanse the Uni-Versalists before joining Toal at the Threshhold. 

“He told you that?”

“Yeah. They’re the ones that crucified him, too.”

“Fierce Xia, why?”

“He didn’t tell me the whole story, but it had somethin’ to do with that fuckin’ prophesy. They were tryin’ to find Furyan males, make ‘em into some kind of army against your Lord Marshal. He wouldn’t enlist.”

“So they crucified him?!”

“Yeah. Those marks on his back are their work, too. Thought I had it bad some of the places I been, but what they did to him takes the fuckin’ cake.”

I lean into the Beast and draw on his strength, which he gives me without hesitation.

“When they couldn’t build an army,” he whispers into my hair. “They tried to breed one. He didn’t tell me about that. I heard about it when I was in Slam City. Same sector. I figure he was part of it. That’s why he needs to ask the next question himself, Li. I don’t know if he’ll be able to. Not now, not ever, if half of the rumors I heard are true. But if he can, and it’s somethin’ you can give him, I wouldn’t mind.”

I sense that this is as much of an answer as he will give me. And that there is a reason he leaves me to make the decision on my own.

“I cannot stand that he had to endure those things,” I whisper back, because some things should be spoken in whispers, even in private. 

“You’re helpin’ him forget them. My blood woke him up, but you’re the one healin’ him. Whatever you need to do t’help him, you do it. Don’t worry about what I’ll think. I’m behind you hundred percent. Two hundred percent, you need me to be.”

“Thank you, Riddick.”

He rubs his hands up my back, until he reaches the _di’an_ marks and spreads his fingers over them. “Should be thankin’ you. I know this is who you are, what you do, but you didn’t have to do it. Not for me. Not for him. I know it’s hurt you. Taken you places you didn’t want to go. May do in the future, too. I never thanked you enough. Not sure I can. So whatever you need to do, you do it. I’ll support you. Always, no questions asked.”

I kiss his jaw, sit back on my heels and pick up the floating sponge. “Thank you, my love.”

“Welcome, wife. Now tell me what we need to do to fix your flowers.”

I laugh, and tell him my plans to rehabilitate my garden.

 

Hardy returns on the third day, with the legionnaire Leto and a skimmer full of Antyon carcasses. His return sends Chef into paroxysms of delight, with so much fresh Antyon meat to use, and me running for stronger soap.

“Was there no water where you were?” I ask as I scrub layer after layer of dried Antyon gore off his skin.

“Sure. Plenty to drink,” he says without lifting his head from the bath’s rim. On the other side of the bath, evidently not objecting to the deep red the bathwater has become, the Beast chuckles.

“Could you not have washed in it?”

“What’s the point? I was just going to get dirty again.”

“That can be said by most men, at most times,” I observe tartly. “And yet they still wash.”

“Guess I’m not most men,” Hardy says.

The Beast guffaws.

I recognize that my irritation has nothing to do with his hygiene and everything to do with him disappearing for three days without a word. I should welcome him back, fuss over him and make sure he knows he was missed. Instead, after the bath and before our meal, I excuse myself and retreat to botanics, where I check on the progress of Eden and begin working on the design of a night garden.

Thaniel arrives to collect a hover-sled of seedlings. I exchange a few words of greeting with him and he tells me he expects Elkie to return on the ‘morrow. I ask him to invite her to our dancing that night, which he says he will. He leaves and I hang my head. I have ignored my friend and best helper at a time when he was, no doubt, missing his lover. I can say nothing right today, it seems.

I save a draft design and sit at my workbench with my head in my hands. I should feel victorious. Eden is progressing ahead of schedule, spurred by the strong radiation that showers Furya daily. The garden is already producing enough food to supplement the stores we bought for a full Furyan year. There will be none of the food shortages I feared. Over a hundred volunteers assist Thaniel every day, and over half of those have appeared in my garden during the last two nights to help me repair it. Already a few of my rose bushes bear buds. The Beast and the other Furyans are healthy and well. Shirah’s threat has been neutralized, at least for now. Even the baby has finally adapted to the Beast’s new nocturnal schedule and stopped kicking me all day while I try to sleep. I have another night of dancing to look forward to. The lupinarus Natane will bear any day and then we will have a new cub to play with. Perhaps that will even divert the Bird, who is becoming more of a trial now that his wings are healed. 

Instead of pleased, I feel hollow. Ashamed. I have been cold to those I should be kind to. Why? Because they did not do what I wanted, when I expected it? Because I still do not know what answer to give Hardy, if he can ever ask his question? Am I truly so controlling and mean? Or is it just the estrogen tangling my emotions again?

I rub my hands over my belly, and a warm pressure in the small of my back startles me. Scent washes over me, warm male musk, leather. The slight difference between a black Caprune and a red. But both scents mingle in the chamber’s still air, and I know that both the Beast and Hardy stand behind me, although I think it is the Beast’s hand in the small of my back.

Hardy slides a stool next to me and sits down on it. He places an old boot on my worktable. Charming. A little dirt scatters across the smooth surface and I brush it away. I open my mouth to tell the Furyan what I think of his peace offering, when I notice the green leaves waving from the boot’s open top.

Hardy pokes the leaves with his pinkie finger. The Beast leans over my shoulder and sniffs at them curiously.

“Antyons swim pretty well for how big they are,” Hardy says. “Don’t know if you knew that.”

I nod, remembering the speed with which the Antyon that chased me crossed the swift main current of the Anzoa.

“I tracked ‘em for two days. There was a good-sized colony inside the shock wall when we landed. Riddick and his soldiers cleared out a lot of ‘em, but there was a big trail to the west. They stuck around for a while, testing the perimeter, but then they disappeared. Their tracks ended at the beach. Just disappeared into the water.”

“So you followed them?”

“Yeah. Fifteen klicks off the shore, I found three islands. Two small, one big. Crawling with Antyons. I killed all the adults, left the juveniles to fend for themselves. There’s plenty for them to eat.”

“You can go back in a few months and cull them again,” I observe.

“Could do. Could go back sooner, if you want. Islands have plants on ‘em I haven’t seen before, not in your garden, not in the jungle. Some of ‘em smell good. I tasted a few. Brought back the ones that tasted good.”

He brought me plant samples? I tip the boot forward into my hands and find six little seedlings tucked inside, nestled in soft-packed dirt. I touch the leaves carefully, spreading them against my fingertips so I can examine their shape and structure. I don’t recognize any of them.

I turn to him. “Thank you, Hardy,” I say and let the fullness of my real feeling for his return pour into my voice. 

He smiles shyly. “Just wanted you to know . . . I was thinking about you.”

I don’t know what to say and simply return his smile.

The Beast breaks the awkward moment by asking, “What’re you workin’ on, Li?”

“A night garden. Here, I’ll show you.” Grateful for the diversion, I tap on my worktable and switch from the two-dimensional display I use for diagramming to a full holographic display. The garden builds slowly as the computer renders each plant type. It’s a small garden, based on the classic tripartite design I was taught by the Feleti. There’s an orchard, an herb bed, and a winding walk through plants that will attract pollinators. The three sections are arranged around a central water-feature shaped like a half-moon, which also serves as the garden’s irrigation system. Because it is a night garden, I’ve made crescents the theme of the garden and the shape is repeated over and over in the walkways, the beds and the structural components of the garden. The shape, rather than circles or straight-lines, makes the garden sinuous and secret, and as the holographic model moves to show each new view, I am pleased with the effect I have created.

“Looks good,” the Beast says. “If I know you, it’ll smell better. Too bad we can’t smell it yet.”

I smile. “But we can.” I tap up the sequencer I’ve been using to ensure that none of the scents will be overpowering, since night-blooming plants are often highly scented. With a tiny puff of mist, the machine on the wall above my worktable sprays the scent of each plant as we pass it in the hologram.

Hardy closes his eyes and lifts his head, scenting. He makes his approving grunt when we pass a bed of night-blooming Calimbree gladiolus. “You smell like that sometimes.”

“Yes, one of the soaps I like is made from gladiolus flowers. But it can cause skin irritation, so it’s not wise to use it too often.” I limit my use of the soap to special occasions, and I used it recently before my wedding to the Beast, which is doubtless when Hardy smelled it.

Hardy nods and sits quietly, appreciating the garden through his nostrils, until the tour finishes. I turn off the sequencer and display. Lean back against the Beast’s warm body. He rests his hands on my shoulders. The air clears from the strong smells of my night garden and the scents of the two men, so warm, so close, so alive, reach me again.

All the contentment and pleasure that I didn’t feel before fills me in a rush. I tip my head back and smile at the Beast. He grins down at me. “Hardy wants to ask you somethin’.”

Now? Is this the time for the next question? So soon? I still don’t have an answer. I turn to the Furyan in surprise.

“Just thinking that you could come with me out to the island. See the plants out there for yourself. There some animals you might like, too. Little lizard I haven’t seen anywhere else. It changes colors to mimic the flowers. Red and yellow and blue. Kinda pretty.”

Somehow Hardy’s invitation reminds me of the Beast’s invitation to the beach. With Antyons. But that fits, I suppose. “I would love to.”

“Could go soon.”

I nod. “Not tomorrow. Elkie’s coming back and we’re dancing. But the day after?”

“That’ll give me time to get some things together,” Hardy says, and I wonder if his plans for our trip to the island are as elaborate as the Beast’s plans for our day at the beach.

“Then it’s a date,” the Beast says quietly, but with finality, and I know that he has seen my thought, and is thinking along the same lines.

It is strange and wonderful and a little frightening to know that whatever I decide, he will approve.

 

Elkie returns in the morning, while we are having our last meal of the day and the rest of Zibon, its first. I have the sense that Elkie makes a statement in whatever she does, and her return is no different. She crashes into the galley with two of her crew members and a man I do not know but I immediately recognize as another Furyan. He is of middle years, older than the Beast but younger than Cawl, with grizzled black hair drawn back into a ponytail and the Furyans’ trademark golden skin. His eyes are lighter brown than the Beast’s, almost same caramel as his skin. He wears leather, but his jacket bears military-looking inscriptions I do not recognize.

The Beast does, and he rises slowly from where he sits next to me, enjoying a scramble of Antyon meat, an oily tuber that Chef has found growing on the beach, and furies, spicy lentils that were one of the original Colony staples, which were already growing wild near Zibon, and have responded well to cultivation. 

Hardy rises from my other side, and draws his knives. A low growl builds in his throat.

I stand to join the men, crossing my hands in front of my belly in what I hope is a less-threatening posture. The new Furyan may represent an authority not well-liked by either the Beast or Hardy, but he does not seem on first impression as rabid as Greer or Booth, who I am pleased to see have not joined us for the meal.

“Gilfoyle,” the Beast says, greeting the newcomer.

“Riddick,” he responds, stopping a few meters from the table, hooking his thumbs in his belt and rocking back on his heels. I note that although he has a gun-belt, it is empty, and I wonder if that is Elkie’s doing.

For her part, Elkie sits down at the head of the table we are occupying and loudly calls for “grub” before starting a conversation with Inker that I do not try to follow.

“Hear I need your permission to come back,” Gilfoyle says.

The Beast shrugs. “If you’re not with us—”

“You’re against us,” the legionnaires at the nearby tables chorus. 

Gilfoyle’s dark amber eyes sweep the room, taking in the several hundred legionnaires, technicians and courtiers. One black eyebrow cocks, then he nods. “I guess I’m with you.”

“No generals allowed,” Hardy growls.

I touch his arm gently.

“I’m retired,” Gilfoyle says. “Don’t know you, son, do I?”

“I was on Dacher Station when you took it,” Hardy snarls. “Your boys sent me to Corovan for three years, for nothing. Just being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Gilfoyle shrugs. “Sorry, son.”

I feel him tense to spring. I close my hand around his wrist and hold him at my side. “Whatever happened, your future is here with us,” I whisper. “You need not think on that past anymore.”

“I can still avenge it,” Hardy murmurs. He’s vibrating under my hand, so close to explosive violence.

“Look to our future instead. If we need to defend the planet, he could be useful,” I offer.

Hardy grunts, but when the Beast sits, so does Hardy. Leaving me standing in a narrow space between the two big Furyan men. Awkwardly, I grasp the table for balance as I begin to sit down.

Two large, male hands are immediately at my back. I smile at them and sink down into their supporting grasp.

Gilfoyle seats himself at our table, but some distance from us, showing that in addition to his military experience, he has some measure of wisdom. He takes a trencher and begins eating with good appetite.

“When were you on Corovan?” The Beast asks Hardy.

Hardy gives him years in a number I do not recognize. It is not the universal calendar, which is, of course, far from universally used. Nor a calendar used by any religion I have studied, nor the Necromonger calendar. The numbers are low, within the span of a man’s life. And it is only after turning them over in my head for a time, that I realize the calendar dates from Furya’s destruction.

“Probably overlapped by a couple of months,” the Beast says.

Hardy nods. “I think I remember when you were brought in. Your kill count was already big enough to make a splash. Not as big as after Butcher Bay, of course.”

I glance at Hardy in surprise. Does he know the Beast’s history? Perhaps he could tell me of it. Then I shake myself. The Beast does not want to remember any of that time, and I have no wish for him to see it my mind in a way that would cause him pain.

The Beast flicks his fingers dismissively. “The real kill count from Butcher Bay wasn’t anything big. Less’n ten, I think. You know what prison rumor’s worth.”

“Spit and wind,” Hardy says.

“Exactly. Where’d you go from Corovan?”

“Merilla until last year. Wildcatting. Pay was good and I didn’t have to deal with people.”

The Beast nods. “U.V. 6 for five years. Saw a lot of urso, but no people. Hard to come back after that long on your own. I know.”

That explains so much about both men. I sit quietly between them, listen and learn.

“Food’s better here,” Hardy says.

“That’s the truth. If I never have to taste urso again it’ll be too soon.” The Beast lifts his goblet of caracoatta juice and Hardy taps his own beaker against it.

“Women are prettier, too. Although there was this kinda cat on Merilla. ‘Bout so tall.” Hardy holds his hand a meter off the ground. “Hunted on two legs. Pointed face. Prettiest eyes I’ve ever seen.”

I sniff.

Hardy grins. “Too bad about the claws, though.”

The Beast chuckles. “Necro women have those, too. Just wait until Liaden unsheathes hers. You’ll be wishing you were back on Merilla.”

I arch an eyebrow at him. “I can arrange for both of you to find yourselves there. Permanently.”

The men laugh at my huff.

 

I spend the last hour of my day outside, beside Thaniel, trying to make amends for my neglect. He accepts my apologies with a smile, and I have to wonder if that is because of my efforts, or because of the return of his lover. Elkie emerges from the Habitable just as I am getting ready to retire. She agrees to come dancing, and we arrange to meet after dinner in my garden for an hour before the dancing begins. 

I find the Beast in an exceptionally good mood when I return to our chambers. He’s often receptive to sexual play when he’s in such a mood, and today is no different. He lets me cover his eyes and then stimulate his skin with a variety of textures, fur, feather, scale and finally my own skin, before he allows me to take him in my mouth. Fellating him is a rare pleasure, because he prefers the sensations of penetration. But today he lets me do as I will and I bring him, groaning his delight, as his wild salt-spray taste fills my mouth.

He falls asleep easily after, cuddled against my back, and although I am stirred by our play, I do not feel the need to sate myself. It is pleasant to fall asleep with the faint questings of desire still curling in my core, knowing that he will fulfill that desire, and more, when we wake.

It is perhaps falling asleep unfulfilled that leads to such strange dreams. I dream of Furya’s jungles, thick, green and humid. There is no breath of wind here, the way there is in the open spaces, constantly swept by Furya’s strong breezes, and the air feels stifling against my skin, soaking and heavy in my lungs. The smells of the jungle are different than Zibon. Humus and rotting leaves. The acrid stink of animal urine as I cross from territory to territory. I rub my nose in my dream and drop my face into the skin of the man who lies under me, to replace the smell of the jungle with the scent of him.

Musk and leather. Skin and smoke. The black Caprune.

My vision is filled with the caramel of his skin, the black of the dirt beneath us. I do not see his face, only feel his movement inside me. He brings me to fulfillment again and again, but is not fulfilled himself. He pants and strains for release, but it slips away each time he grasps at it. I try to help, squeezing my internal muscles, stroking his sensitive places, rolling my hips against his. But nothing helps, because I am not what he needs.

I wake with his desperate moan of “Shirah, Shirah” in my ears. And the bitter taste of betrayal in my mouth.

I lie in the Beast’s arms, listening to his deep, even breathing, feeling the warmth of his body around me, and contemplate my dream. In all the days of my handfasting to Hanuel, in all the nights of my servitude to Zhylaw, in my many months with the Beast, I have never once dreamed of lying with another man. I have never even felt the waking impulse. My loyalty was always absolute. Heart, soul, sinew and bone deep. Zhylaw branded it into me by setting the links of the Collar around my neck, but there was no need. I am as loyal in thought as I am in word and deed.

That my thoughts, my deep subconscious desire, have suddenly betrayed me, leaves me shaken and unsure.

When he wakes, I tell the Beast of my dream. My subconscious may have betrayed me, but I will not betray him. Not even by omission. 

The Beast listens seriously, nods as though contemplating the matter, then breaks into a smile. “I think I know what you need. Somethin’ to focus your thoughts. Keep ‘em on the straight’n narrow.”

“Really?” I ask, hopeful that he knows some cure for my wayward subconscious.

“Yeah, turn over.”

Puzzled, but still hopeful, I turn over and prop myself against the pillows to avoid putting too much weight on my stomach.

The Beast lifts my nightgown and delivers a ringing slap to my backside. I jolt and howl in surprise. “Riddick!”

The Beast chuckles. He places his big hand on the small of my back, holds me still and gives me a spanking that leaves me smarting, and writhing, under him. When he’s done, he pulls me up onto my knees and takes me, his flesh slapping against the sensitized skin of my buttocks. His driving penetration wrings howls of a wholly different sort out of me. When he finally lets me collapse back into the pillows, I can think of nothing but him, and the ecstasy we have shared, and the love that fills my heart. He has left no room for anything else.


	21. Chapter 21

I find gardening a challenge, with a bruised behind, and have no doubt that I will have similar difficulty dancing tonight, but the Beast’s “remedy” does have the intended effect. I think of him every time I move, and his rough and wonderful love-making, and never once of my disturbing dream.

Elkie notices my discomposure after only a few minutes and elbows me. “You sore, darlin’? Need a sit-down?”

“Definitely not.” We carry wide baskets into which we drop _gles_ , the tiny green fingerling fruits of the N’gles tree. The fruit has a bland taste, but is an excellent source of potassium, and holds up well to cooking, so Chef has been using it to good effect. The fruit bruises easily, however, and so is unsuitable for mechanical picking. Fortunately, there are many hands to make this light work. “Will you tell me where you have been?”

“Sure. I did that run to Thelriss, even though no one came with me. Riddick sent me for rhodium, so it wasn’t a waste of fuel. Got a good load, and a good price for that black metal you Necros make. That’ll keep Riddick happy.”

I did not know we needed rhodium, or even what use it might be put to. But the Beast does, as he knows everything, it seems, about running our new community. “Did you meet General Gilfoyle on Thelriss?”

“Nope, on Creation. I stopped there to pick up a crate of the ale I’ve been telling Thaniel about—”

“It’s like liquid sunlight,” Thaniel enthuses from the other side of the N’gles tree.

“Bumped into Gilfoyle there. He was making his way here anyway, just needed a ride.”

“Did you know of him?”

“Sure. Gilfoyle’s Guerrillas. Para-military mercs. Give the rest of us a bad name.” She winks at me. “But Gilfoyle himself is okay.”

“Hardy doesn’t like him,” I observe.

“Hardy doesn’t like anyone, darlin’. ‘Cept for you. When’d that happen? I musta been away. And why ain’t Riddick biting his head off every time he breathes in your direction, like he does with the rest of us?”

I shrug, unpleasantly reminded of my dream, despite my sore posterior. “It happened when Riddick shared blood with Hardy. We’re not really sure why. They both find it difficult to explain.”

Elkie snorts. “Men, find somethin’ difficult to explain? Knock me over with an Antyon claw, darlin’.”

“I heard that,” Thaniel protests from the other side of the tree.

“You know I love you ‘cause you ain’t like other men,” Elkie responds, and my own heart contracts to hear how easily she throws around the word love. A word the Beast has never said to me in all our time together, and I have stopped wondering if he will ever say it. It doesn’t matter, I know he holds me in his heart. But sometimes it would be nice to hear.

“Still, if Riddick’s willin’ to share you, and all I gotta do is carve up my palm, that’s somethin’ to think about.” Elkie eyes me and I wish I had worn one of my old court gowns instead of a light gardening shift. “I heard you had a nice heart-to-heart with Shirah while I was gone, too. Sounds like you gave her somethin’ to think about. I was proud of you, darlin’.”

“She has no right to visit such misery on the men,” I say.

Elkie glances off into the distance, her eyes glinting. “Wasn’t just the men.”

Was she torturing Elkie somehow, too? Is that why Elkie began sleeping with my botanist? “Why didn’t you say something?”

Elkie shrugs. “Wasn’t sure what it was. I’ve had nightmares before, plenty of times. But never of burning cities, burnin’ alive. Or of being held down in the dirt while . . . well, it don’t matter. I’m sleepin’ better now and it looks like everyone else is, too. If I’ve got you to thank for that, ‘least I know who to kiss.”

I stiff-arm her when she leans into me. “You haven’t sworn to Riddick yet, so I’ll thank you to keep your kisses to yourself, you rouge. And I’m not sure I did stop Shirah. In fact, I spoke to her after Riddick and Hardy and the others already seemed better.” It was the ending of Shirah’s fertility cycle that stopped the nightmares, which means that when her next cycle begins, so will the terrible insomnia. I will need to find out from Cays when Shirah will ovulate, so I am prepared. I will ask her when I see her tonight.

We pick fruit for an hour, until it is my back rather than my backside which aches, and I consent to sit down after all. Elkie and Thaniel leave me under a stand of native trees to rest. Ctyren, who has been playing chase with the Bird, flops down at my feet, and the Bird joins him a moment later, settling onto the lupinarus’s back like a feather-duster. I peel and eat one of the gles I have picked, find its blandness appealing to my sensitive stomach, and am working my way through the bunch when Ctyren lifts his head and growls.

I look up, following his line of sight. I cannot imagine whatever it is is very threatening, not since the completion of the shock wall. 

Indeed, it is nothing more threatening than Nadie, picking her way through the N’glas grove towards me in her high-heeled boots. An unusual and somewhat absurd sight, but non-threatening.

“Down,” I say to the lupinarus. With a grumble, Ctyren lays his head back across his paws. The Bird pecks his brow-ridge in admonishment.

I chuckle and peel another gles. Maybe Nadie will like it. If not, I am happy to eat another.

When she reaches me, I offer her the fruit. She takes it, bites into it delicately, and makes a face. She hands me the half-eaten fruit, which I toss under a bush, deciding that I do not desire her left-overs after all.

“It is very hot out here,” she says.

I do not find it particularly hot. Kreon is beginning to set, the garden is swept by an early evening breeze, and the air is pleasantly warm, but not overly so. Particularly in the dappled shade of the morlin trees, I find the temperature exactly right. Perhaps it is just the tightness of her dress that makes her feel overheated.

“I’m sorry I have nothing cool to offer you,” I say, trying to make polite conversation. I cannot imagine why Nadie has ventured out into my garden. Surely it is not for a social visit.

She seems as uncomfortable as I, looking around, avoiding my gaze. She keeps one hand clenched tight against her side and I wonder if she has a stitch from walking the kilometer from the Habitable. I know from the Concubine’s training I ran before we left the Armada that, although very slender, Nadie is not in good physical condition.

“What are these trees?” she asks finally.

“Morlin trees. They bear nuts in the cold season.” I cup my hand to demonstrate the size of the nuts. “The first Furyans said they were very flavorsome, particularly roasted.”

Nadie walks toward the trunk of the nearest tree, still pressing her hand against her side. I follow her, and lean against the tree trunk when we reach it. I cannot see Elkie and Thaniel from where I stand, but I can see the two legionnaires who have trailed me since I stepped out of Zibon’s door. Instructed, no doubt, by the Beast to keep an eye on me. Faz is busy turning over rocks in the small irrigation stream that runs between the N’gles grove and a field of sweetips. Looking for crawlish, which we have all come to enjoy. He turns slightly so he can keep me in sight. I wave to him.

When I turn back to Nadie, she lifts the hand she’s had pressed against her side, and blows a cloud of blue dust into my face.

I sneeze in surprise. Then I can only choke as the dust rushes up my nose, down my throat. My eyes fill with water. My vision smears to a reddish blur. My nose and throat thicken. I gasp, gulping down air.

“ _She_ says it might not kill you, if you’re strong,” Nadie hisses. “But I hope it does, _breeder_.”

I fall to my knees, reaching for Hannelore in her calf sheathe. The blade springs to my hand and I hold her in front of me, in case Nadie tries to press her advantage. She is not a strong fighter, but neither was Dame Vaako, and she nearly killed me. I cough, trying to clear my throat enough to breathe. But each breath is harder, more labored. My lungs feel compressed, like a giant hand has caught me round the chest and is squeezing, squeezing so tight.

I hear Nadie turn, see the red blur recede. I sag against the cool tree-trunk, concentrating on each breath.

_Liaden?_

I cannot answer him. I cannot spare the energy. Each gasp takes all my concentration. All my will. To suck in a tiny trickle of air around the hideous swelling in my nose and throat. The terrible, labored noise of my breathing sounds loud in my ears, all but drowning the footfalls pounding towards me.

Faz reaches me first. His hands close hard on my shoulders. “Lady Liaden?”

I shake my head. He cannot help me. I need a healer. I drive Hannelore’s point into the soil at my knees. Blindly carve the characters of Cays’s name.

“Durren, go. Get the healer.” Faz’s voice punctuates my ragged breaths, and whether it is the panic in his voice or the horrible noise I make as I struggle to breathe, it has the desired effect. The other legionnaire pounds away.

“What happened to her?” Elkie’s voice. Her hands cup my back. “Easy, darlin’, I got you.”

“It’s the trees.” Nadie’s voice. “She leaned against one of the trees and all this dust fell on her.”

She’s a liar as well as an assassin, and although she is a poor liar, I have a terrible fear that she might prove to be a better assassin.

“Let’s get her out from under them.”

I can’t argue with either of them, because with a horrible sense of constriction, my throat closes. I begin to convulse in Elkie’s arms, fighting for another gasp of air.

“Red bloody gods, she’s suffocating.”

“Where’s the healer?!”

“She has no time.” Elkie’s voice carries the same unmistakable authority as the Beast’s. “You, get me a reed from the stream. Right now.” I reach up to her and she grasps my hand. “I’m not gonna let you die, darlin’. Hold on.”

I nod, even as I jerk against her, my body heaving, desperate for another breath.

It can only be a few seconds before Faz returns with the reed, but it feels like much longer. An eternity while my lungs burn and my chest tightens and my sight dims from red to black.

“Here, here!”

“Cut both ends off. I need a tube.” Elkie reaches across me, closes her hand around mine where I still hold Hannelore. “This is your knife. She won’t hurt you. Help me, honey.”

She raises my hand, guides it to my throat. I know what she’s going to do a moment before Hannelore’s tip touches my skin. I squeeze her hand tightly, stare sightlessly up at her. Give her permission to open my throat.

Awful, choking pressure at the base of my throat, worse than the constriction within, and then a searing pain as Hannelore pierces my skin. Elkie’s hand shakes on mine. “Liaden—”

I push, shoving Hannelore’s sharp tip through the wall of muscle and into my esophagus. A bubbling, tormented rasp, and the promise of air for my burning lungs.

“Put it in,” Elkie says brokenly. She sounds like she’s crying.

Hannelore slips out of my skin, replaced by pressure so painful I scream soundlessly. The reed Faz pushes into the wound feels like a brand, but with a gurgling whistle, I draw breath.

I collapse back into Elkie’s arms. A second breath fills my lungs. A third. Breathing is agony. The touch of air on my starved lungs sears. The reed burns in the wound. But I gasp each breath greedily. Gratefully.

Elkie bends over me, brushing hair out of my face, laying her cheek against my temple. “Darlin’, I’m so sorry.”

I want to absolve her, but all I can do is breathe.

 

I do not see the Beast execute Nadie, his recurved blades slashing through her slender neck so that her head bounces across the morlin tree’s roots before landing face-down in Furya’s rich soil. I do not hear him roar at Elkie and Thaniel, Faz and Durren, for failing to protect me. I do not see or hear these things, because Hardy follows him to where I lie, still breathing through the reed, picks me up and carries me back through the groves to the Habitable. He lays me on my bed. He holds my hand through the healing as though Necromonger healing might pain me as it does him. He rubs my back until I fall asleep. He says nothing, just hums deep in his chest, a sound meant to reassure me, but which I know I will forever associate with the burning in my throat, the terrible struggle to breathe, the acute awareness of my own vulnerability, and the knowledge that Shirah, although held captive, has managed to strike the first blow.

When I wake, one Furyan is gone, replaced by another. I smile up into the Beast’s dark, serious eyes and cuddle against his chest.

“She’s dead.”

“Doubtless. Did you ask her where she got the toxin before you killed her?”

“No.” He grunts, high and displeased. “Should’ve.”

“It was blue, and had an earthy taste,” I say, recalling clearly what induced such agony. “Do you remember those mushrooms the Furyans brought us on their first visit? It reminded me of those.”

“You think she got it from the Furyans?”

From one Furyan in particular, although I doubt very much I will be able to prove it. “Or they told her about them.”

“I will fuckin’ slaughter them.”

I stroke his chest, and say nothing.

“You ain’t gonna plead their case?”

“No. I said I would not intercede again. I am not interceding. I don’t believe you’ll find them guilty without some proof, and I very much doubt you will find it. But if you do, please feel free to carry out their sentence. I recommend hanging. There’s a pleasing symmetry to that.”

“How can you be so fuckin’ calm?”

Because unlike Nadie, I have woken up today. In the arms of my love. Secure in the knowledge of his affection and concern. Resolved to strike the second blow in what I have no doubt will be a war. “I am well. You are well. That is all that matters.”

“You're stayin’ in bed. I don’t care how well you are. Tomoetu said he wants you on bed rest for at least two days. He said if you hadn’t been so strong and so far along, your body would’ve aborted the baby. She tried to kill our fuckin’ baby. So don’t even think about arguin’ with me.”

Shirah has a great deal to answer for. And answer she will. “I’m not arguing with you. Although I regret missing the trip to the island with Hardy.”

The Beast grunts. “Fuck, I forgot about that.”

Hardy won’t have. “We can go when I recover. There is no harm in a short delay.” It might give me enough time to come up with an answer, although I have the feeling that I will not know until I am in the moment, confronted by what will be a most difficult choice. “There is something I would like you to do for me while I am resting, though.”

“Anythin’. What?”

“Take Shirah for a walk around my garden. Ask her about the blue mushrooms if you like, but make sure she sees that my roses are recovering. Offer her one of the large white rosebuds. The Caprunes.”

“No,” he says, automatically, as though on reflex, even after he just told me he’d do anything for me. Then he asks, “Why?”

“The thorns carry a slow-acting neurotoxin. Make sure not to prick yourself, and that she does. Two days from now, she will find herself very, very sick indeed. Tell her guard to prepare a bucket.”

The Beast pulls me very close, hugs me very tight. “Fuck, there are those claws.” He rocks me in his arms. “I thought I’d fuckin’ lost you.”

I close my eyelids, which are very heavy even though I have only been awake for a few minutes. “You will never lose me. I am with you always.”

He holds me and rocks me, until I drift back to sleep.

 

Although I should take no pleasure in the pain of others, I find the report of Shirah’s illness rather sweet. It comes on my first day out of bed, when I am still shaky and easily winded. Although Tomoetu and Cays were able to repair my throat, and the scar left behind is not too disfiguring, there was damage to my lungs that they wanted to let heal on its own, to minimize the scarring to those delicate bellows. It will be some time before I am able to breathe freely again.

I silently thank Xia for each labored breath, and plan my next move.

Shirah struck at me with her planet’s toxins. I struck back with a cultivar. Something native for my next blow, I think, and walking with the Beast along the Anzoa at sunset, feeling the mud squish between my toes, I choose my weapon.

I bend down, aware of the Beast’s immediate concern, flick my finger through the mud, and straighten before he can ask if I’m well. Lifting my finger to the Beast’s nose, I ask, “What does this smell like to you?”

“Mud.”

“Other than mud.”

“Dunnow. River water, I guess.”

“Does it smell good? Does it smell like Furya? Like home, life, sex?”

“Why, you plannin’ on us rollin’ around in it?”

“No. I’m planning on making a gift of it.”

“Why would anyone want mud?”

“For the skin. It is marvelous for drawing out impurities.” It is actually clay that is good for the skin, and since that will result in an even thicker coating, I resolve to find some clay instead. I flick the mud off my finger with a smile. “You didn’t answer me. Does it smell good to you?”

“No, smells like mud. Liaden, what the fuck are you plannin’?”

I let him see my scheme as it takes shape in my mind, and he chuckles. “Remind me never to really piss you off.”

 

I enlist Gvenne to help me. As I have learned during our time dancing and gardening together, she is a Polisher. Having always attended to my own maquillage, and now wearing almost none since the Beast does not like the look or feel of anything artificial on my skin, I have never used the Polishers’ services, but I know they are prized by the women of the Court to assist them in achieving the Necromonger aesthetic ideal. 

Now I imagine they have a different ideal to work towards.

Gvenne readily agrees to help me find suitable clay, and we take a skimmer up the Anzoa in search of a deposit. Both the Beast and Hardy accompany us, which surprises me, but we may have to leave the safety of the shock wall, so I suppose it is only prudent to have their protection. And I am glad for their company.

They bicker over the direction, each claiming to have seen a clay shelf on the riverbank, but neither with any real idea of where it was, I divine as we circle over yet a third spot that is curiously devoid of any sign of clay.

Gvenne nudges me. “They’re very . . .”

I wait to see how she completes the sentence. There are a number of words that might apply. Arrogant. Domineering. Irritating.

“Lost,” she finishes.

More than she knows, although less than they were, these orphans of Furya. “Male,” I whisper back.

The Beast turns his head from the viewer to glare at me over his shoulder. I smile brightly at him. Gvenne shrinks beside me.

When the Beast looks away, I nudge her back. “He practices that stare. In my mirror. By the hour.” She giggles, then covers her mouth with her hand. “He’s not nearly as fearsome as he’d like you to believe.”

“Liaden,” the Beast growls.

“My love?”

“Quit destroying my cred.”

“Of course, my love.” I roll my eyes and Gvenne dissolves into giggles.

It takes my two mighty Furyan hunters over an hour to find a clay bank, by which time my back is aching from sitting on the skimmer’s bench and my stomach is aching from laughing with Gvenne. She has many stories of courtiers’ follies, and since I never had much love for the women of Zhylaw's Court, I enjoy them a great deal. When she runs out of stories, she asks me to teach her the whole song we found so moving the last time we danced, which I do, and even the Beast smiles to hear us singing together. I teach her several other of my favorite melodies, including a lullaby, but I find Hardy watching me in the reflection of the front viewer during that song, his eyes dark and haunted, so I turn to lighter tunes.

The approach to the clay bank we eventually find is wooded and rough, with a sharp drop to the river. The men will not let me risk it, so they pick up the buckets and trowels I have brought and disappear over the drop. Their bickering, which has only paused while we have been singing, resumes and it is not long before I hear the wet splat of clay on flesh, rather than clay into metal.

“Riddick,” I say, knowing without looking. He rarely misses the opportunity to strike the first blow.

Gvenne stands up from where we are sitting on a fallen log so she can see over the lip of the escarpment. “Yes, but the Furyan is on top, grinding the Lord Marshal's face into the clay now.”

I shrug. “At least their skin will be soft.”

Gvenne sits back down beside me and takes my hand. “Is it strange, being with two men?”

Is that what everyone thinks? I find the notion distasteful. “I am not with both of them.” Not yet at any rate.

“Some say that the Lord Marshal will take Hardy as his husband, now that he has killed his concubine.”

I snort. First Husband. Shirah will feel so very, very displaced. “I think it unlikely—”

I break off at a loud splash from the river. Since we are still inside the shock wall, I am not overly concerned about predators, but I would prefer the two men did not drown each other before collecting my clay.

Gvenne stands up and peers down the bank. “Hardy. He swims well.”

Yes, he does. “At least he will be clean.”

Gvenne purses her mouth. “Not so much. The clay’s quite sticky. He looks like a wet ghost.”

I fear for the bath’s filter. “Men. How did you meet Leto?”

Gvenne winces at a roar from the riverbank. The Beast. I would know that roar anywhere. It is followed by another heavy splash, probably also the Beast, since he weighs more than Hardy. “I used to help the Purifiers with new Converts. Especially the wounded ones, who couldn’t be hung during Purification. Leto’s from Aquilla. He took eleven hits during Conquest. He was so brave, so strong. I sat by his bedside every day and read the Word to him until he was well enough to be Purified. But he never truly Converted. I felt it, every day, the heaviness in his heart. I knew as soon as the Lord Marshal announced the Colony that he’d want to go. I applied for both of us, without even asking him. He’s been so happy here, I cannot tell you.”

I know well the delight in seeing a loved one’s happiness. I smile at her. “And you?”

“Oh, Liaden, you must know how it is. This is such a strange place. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel at home here. But it’s beautiful, and Leto’s happy.”

“I understand completely.”

“Do you? You’re from Addeus, aren’t you?”

“Tarenge.”

“Oh, I thought you were . . . they said, the marks on your back—”

“I am Daixian.”

“Then you’re like them, aren’t you?” She nods at the riverbank, from which the sounds of the Furyans’ battle still emanate. 

Glancing at the position of Kreon, low in the sky, I call down to them, “Those buckets must be almost full by now.”

There is a long silence. Then some splashing and grunting, followed by the wet slap of clay into metal again. Gvenne giggles.

“I trained as a hunter,” I say to her. “My mother taught me and if she had lived, I would have followed her to be a hunter of men. But she died and my brother could not pay the land pledge. So I was sold to a Feleti family. I am now what I was then, a servant.”

“ _Wife_.” The Beast’s growl rings up the clay bank.

“Husband?” I respond politely. “How come my buckets of clay?”

“Gettin’ there.”

“Excellent. The sun is setting. The midges are biting.” I slap at one for effect. “And our breakfast still awaits at Zibon. Although I enjoy eating by moonlight, I would like breakfast before midnight.”

“You know your problem?” he growls and a trowel-full of clay arcs up over the lip of the escarpment to splat on the leaves not far from my feet. “You’re too clean.”

I grab Gvenne’s arm and pull her back over the log. A moment later, two trowels-worth of clay splat against the log where I was sitting.

I drag Gvenne behind a tree. “The beating has affected your aim, my love.”

A volley of clay peppers the log, moving towards the tree where we shelter, following the sound of my voice, no doubt, since he cannot possibly see over the edge.

“He didn’t beat me.”

“All evidence to the contrary,” Hardy says. “Pretty sure I heard your nose break.”

Was it a real fight? Why? The bickering seemed affectionate. I have not seen the two men interact physically often, but when they do, they have always been gentle with each other. The Beast rubbed his hand over Hardy’s head just this morning when we parted before bed. I thought they were playing, but perhaps Furyan play involves broken noses. It certainly involves very sore behinds.

“’Least I’ll be seein’ out of both eyes on the way back,” the Beast rejoins.

He blackened one of Hardy’s eyes?

“You’ll still need my one eye to find your way back. Second south fork, I said. South. Not west, south.”

“If you knew the difference between your fuckin’ right and left, you coulda given me half-decent directions.”

At least they’re bickering again. “Gentlemen, breakfast awaits.” And evidently a bath and another visit from Cays.

The next wet splat of clay hits metal, at least, but the one after that hits the tree I’m hiding behind. Gvenne and I stay well-hidden until the two men, wet ghosts indeed, emerge over the lip of the bank. The Beast has a rime of blood in the clay caked on his upper lip. Hardy’s left eye has swollen closed. They present their buckets sheepishly when I come out from behind the tree, plant my fists on my hips and glare at them.

Neither bucket is full, although there is more than enough for what I intend. “At least some of the clay ended up in there. You cannot return to Zibon like that. You are the Lord Marshal.” I level my glare at the Beast. “You are his Warden.” I transfer my glare to Hardy, who flinches. I moderate my scowl immediately. He is still too sensitive for such teasing. “Have some respect for the dignity of your stations. Go back and wash off.”

“I did. It doesn’t come off.” Hardy protests, drawing a finger through the thick coating on his arm. He’s right. The clay smears but no skin appears.

“You just want Liaden to bathe you again,” the Beast says.

I see Gvenne’s eyes widen. Wonderful, another rumor to add grist to the mill.

I stomp off a few meters, pull up two handfuls of native nettles, and thrust them at the men. They are not stinging nettles, which they would deserve, but the leaves are very hairy and will help remove the clay. “Go. Wash.”

The men take the nettles from me without argument and troop back down toward the river. I see the Beast push Hardy over a protruding tree root before they are even half-way down the bank. “Riddick!”

The Beast chuckles. “He started it.”

“End it, too.” Hardy recovers from his stumble, throws a headlock around the Beast’s neck and the two men tumble down the bank.

“Furyans,” I say to Gvenne. I pick up a bucket, Gvenne picks up the other and we carry them back to the clearing where the skimmer waits.

“Are they just rough-housing?” She asks me tentatively as we pull flight-webbing down over the buckets and secure them.

“Honestly, I can’t tell.”

“Are they . . . fighting? Over you?”

Are they? No, the Beast said he would support whatever decision I made. Surely they do not seek to settle the matter between themselves. The decision is mine. I will not be fought over like a bone. “No. I do not pretend to understand Furyans, but there is no rivalry between them.”

Gvenne nods. “I’m not sure what I would do if Leto wanted to share me.”

I’m not sure what to do, either.


	22. Chapter 22

The men finally return, leaving white-tinged puddles wherever they step, but they are passably clean. The Beast stops to kiss me before climbing into his navigation cradle. Hardy offers me a tiny posy of wildflowers, slightly crumpled and very damp, before climbing into his. I split it and hand half to Gvenne, who sniffs the pleasant-smelling posy appreciatively. I find a tiny golden beetle inside one flower. Recognizing it as a predator of destructive insects, rather than a pest, I let it crawl around on my fingers for a while before returning it to its flower. I will rehouse it in one of my gardens.

Kreon has fully set, and I am extremely hungry, by the time we return to Zibon. But I force the men to change before we eat, and set the Beast’s nose while Cays tends to Hardy’s eye.

To reward them, although I am not sure their behavior deserves any reward, I send Nazya to the galley to ask Chef for a picnic and when she brings it on a hover table, I steer it and the two men down to my recovering garden. I set out the picnic on the banks of the stream, close to Tihamner’s nettle patch, and eat with gusto while I await the lupinarus.

Tihamner emerges from the nettles before we have finished the first course: thick slices of the oily tuber Chef has found, deep fried, and garnished with a fresh salad of sea-apple and peppery tuck-tuck leaves. Tihamner drops a tiny bundle of soft scales at the Beast’s feet, then sits on his haunches and regards us all with his black moon eyes.

Fearing nothing from the guardian of my garden, I am the first to stroke the newborn cub. The two men quickly follow, and it is Hardy who ends up with the cub on his lap as we eat, cupping it protectively in one huge hand.

“Would you like to name it?” I ask as I scoop soft custard into three bowls and garnish it with slices of fresh fruit. I have not started serving Hardy at table – that is a privilege reserved for the Lord Marshal – but if I am serving the Beast or myself, I serve Hardy, too. He always eats everything I serve him, I have noticed, and I understand that in this way, too, Hardy is just like the Beast. The offering of food is incredibly important to the Furyans.

Shirah would have done better feeding them, rather than trying to force them to fight for her. But she is far too proud, and I am grateful she did not realize that this is the way to their hearts. I would not be deprived of the company of these two men. Not for anything. Not even if I have to give myself to both of them.

I realize then that I have already made my decision. Perhaps I made it in my heart long ago. When I first held Hardy and felt him shake in my arms and realized that it was I, not Cays, who could truly take away his pain.

“Warden,” Hardy says, with a glance at the Beast, who gives a deep grunt. They left off their bickering once we returned to Zibon and I wonder if their relationship outside its stone walls is somehow different than when they are within.

“A very fine name. May I offer it in Daixian, since that is how the rest of its family is named? _Kialoth_.”

Hardy gives me his slightly lopsided smile. “I like that. What does his name mean?” He points at Tihamner, relaxed enough now to stretch out next to the Beast, who is absently scratching the scales under his jaw. I explain the names of each member of the hellhound family, as well as Ctyren’s three siblings, who we left with the Armada.

As I’m speaking, Hardy lifts his head and scents. The Beast mirrors his movement and Tihamner rises onto his haunches with a growl. A few moments later, I hear footsteps and the whisper of the Elemental’s robes over the stones of the path that leads along the stream. Pleased that she has not taken me by surprise this time, I rise onto my knees to greet her.

She is not alone, I see when she comes into the soft light from the lanterns that light the path every few meters. The new Furyan, Gilfoyle, accompanies her. His military-straight demeanor has not bent since our first meeting. He holds his arm at a perfect right angle, with Aereon’s arm curving through his, and her hand resting on the back of his as he holds it parallel to the ground. It is a very old-fashioned pose, and I think it suits them both very well.

As does the color in Aereon’s cheeks, just visible in the lantern’s golden light. She nods to each of us. Gilfoyle trades growls with the Beast and Hardy. It must be a genetic mandate, for the Furyans to greet each other that way.

“Good evening, Liaden,” the Elemental says. “I hope you don’t mind if I show the General your garden.”

“Not at all,” I respond. “That’s what it’s for. Please enjoy it, even if it is not at its best at the moment.”

“It’s still very impressive,” Gilfoyle says.

I smile at him. A gallant General. “Please come back and view it again. In a few weeks, there will be flowers to admire, fruit to enjoy. In fact.” I pick up a bottle of Cark that Chef has included in the picnic, although I don’t know why since I’m not drinking alcohol at the moment, the Beast should not drink the Necromonger fare, and Hardy does not favor it. I rise to my feet and offer the bottle to the General. “Please take this with you to refresh you as you walk. I’m sorry I can’t offer you clean glasses.”

“That’s my wine,” the Beast objects.

“Which you should not be drinking,” I say sweetly.

“Then it’s my wine,” Hardy says.

“Which you do not drink.” I nod at his glass, still half-full of rowela nectar. “Enjoy General. Aereon.” I curtsey to them before I sink back down into the grass between the two glowering men.

Bemused, the couple quickly say farewell and continue down the stream path.

Watching their retreating backs, the Beast grumbles. “Can’t believe you gave him my wine.”

“I can’t believe you objected when I did, since you’ve not had a sip of it.” When he opens his mouth to protest, I hold up a hand. “Nor should you. The Furyan fare sits so well with you. You look so well. I can tell you feel so much better. How could you think of undermining that for a few swallows of Cark?”

The Beast works his open mouth for a moment, and I can tell he is trying to think of a rejoinder. “Still my wine.”

“That’s the best you can come up with? Did Hardy hit you on the head as well as the nose?”

The Beast pounces on me in retaliation, while Hardy guffaws.

Once he has tickled me into submission, the Beast lays back on the grass, his arms behind his head, which I take as an invitation. I lie beside him, put my head on his bent arm, and after a moment’s hesitation, hold my hand out to Hardy.

The other Furyan moves slowly to lie on my other side. He doesn’t quite touch me, but I feel the warmth of his body beside mine. For the moment, it is enough.

The artificial sky of my garden is programmed to mimic Furya’s. It is shading toward full dark now, with the pinpricks of stars and two of Prokris’s many moons making their majestic transit through the velvet night. I sigh with satisfaction. My belly is full. My heart is light. My men are at my side. I reach down, find Hardy’s hand and thread my fingers through his. Then place my other hand on the Beast’s warm, taut belly. Feel his low rumble of contentment.

Cradled between the two men, I drift off into a pleasant doze.

 

When I wake, I find the Beast and Hardy still beside me. The Beast’s deep voice has woken me, for all that I can tell they are trying to talk softly, since they are talking about me.

“Her breasts’re sensitive,” the Beast says. “Gotta take it easy.”

“Anywhere I can’t touch?”

“No. She’s still receptive everywhere. Old Man says that might change next month, but for now you’re good.”

The Beast asked Tomoetu about my sexual receptivity? And then decided to share this information with Hardy?

“I’ve never done it with, you know, a pregnant woman.”

“No? You might never go back. You’ll love how she feels. Might keep her pregnant forever.”

I’m not sure what’s more unbelievable. The content of this conversation or its existence. I snort, both to let the Beast know what I think of that last suggestion, and to let them know that I am awake.

“G’morning,” the Beast says.

“Good morning,” I respond, although it must be close to midnight. “Would either of you like to know where I don’t want to be touched? From the prize heifer’s mouth, so to speak?”

“This isn’t going to go well,” Hardy murmurs. 

I sit up, yank my hand from where it is still entangled with Hardy’s and pound my fists on both men’s chests. “This is where I don’t want to be touched! How dare you lie next to me discussing how . . . how I feel inside?! What an absolutely vile conversation!”

The Beast scoops his arm around my shoulders and pulls me down onto his chest. “Thought you might appreciate it.”

“Well, you thought wrong. Hardy clearly hit you too hard in the head, to have so addled your wits—“

The Beast silences me by rolling me over onto my back and kissing me. I try to push him away in disgust, although I don’t try very hard. He ignores my feeble efforts and runs his mouth down my throat. I see him reach out and grab something out of my line of sight. Then Hardy’s head appears over me, with the Beast’s hand grasping his hair. The Beast pushes Hardy’s face down into mine.

I have a moment of confusion. I turn my head from side to side, as though seeking escape. Hardy kisses one cheek, then the other, as I turn my face away. Light brushes of his full lips. His hand comes up to cup my face, and he holds me still while he touches his mouth to mine. His kisses are different from the Beast’s, who often kisses me softly, but always with searing intensity. Hardy kisses me softly, but hesitantly, as though unsure of whether I will accept him. He does not hurry his caress, or deepen it, even when I begin to kiss him back. Just trails his lips over and over mine. He is incredibly, unbelievably gentle.

His hand strokes my jaw, then leaves my face, skims down my arm and finds my hand. He threads his fingers through mine and squeezes. His fingers are thick, blunt, not the Beast’s long, fine digits. I feel the strength in his fingers, but he does not exercise it. Each squeeze is soft. Just the gentle pulse of his fingers around mine. 

I feel an answering pulse in my breasts, in my groin. The heavy beat of desire. I did not expect to desire him. I had thought of intimacy with him – when I thought of it at all – as a duty. A pleasurable duty, of course, like healing him, but a duty nonetheless. Now I realize that it will be no duty at all. He wants to pleasure me, that was the impetus behind his bizarre conversation with the Beast. And I realize in that moment, with his hand stroking mine, his lips caressing mine, drowning in the heat and scent of the black Caprune, that I want to pleasure him. Not just because our joining will help bring him back from the emotional tundra where he has wandered alone for so long, but because I desire him. I want to be fulfilled and completed by him, in the way that only he can fulfill and complete me. He is unique. He is Hardy. And I want him to be mine.

He does not kiss me for long. Just long enough for me to melt so far into my own desire that I may never become solid again. Then he pulls back, yanks his head out of the Beast’s grasp and rolls away. I turn my head to meet the crucible of the Beast’s gaze. He is not angry, not jealous, not even amused. He is deeply and powerfully aroused.

By tacit agreement, we let Hardy make his escape before the Beast grabs my hand and drags me back to our chamber. He tosses me onto the bed and I let him, knowing its softness will prevent any injury. He is on top of me in an instant, before I even push aside the billow of pillows and covers. His mouth on mine. His hands tearing off my clothes. He releases my mouth long enough to growl, “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t sit down. Can’t believe how hot that was to watch.” Then there are no more words, nothing but motion and sensation until we are both completely sated.

 

I lie in the circle of his arms, with my head on his shoulder and my back pressed to his broad chest, watching Prokris rise through the great lens in our bedroom. The gas giant’s face is broken by clouds, and it casts an eerie, bloody light into our chamber.

“That’s pretty,” the Beast observes.

He would think it so. Although, to be fair, his eyes may see it differently than mine do. Or maybe it is his brain that perceives it differently, through the lens of his Furyan aesthetic.

“I was afraid you would be jealous of Hardy,” I say, articulating what is on my mind, which is not the rising planet.

The Beast grunts, and shifts so that I feel the press of his phallus against my backside. He is stiffening again. How can he rise again so soon after such exhausting love-making? Is the memory of watching Hardy kiss me so powerfully arousing for him?

“Had no idea how much watching you two would turn me on,” he rumbles. “Never been a voyeur before. Guess I learned somethin’ new today.”

So did I. “Would you like to watch in the future?”

“Yeah, but I think Hardy’s gonna need t’be alone with you for a while. If he can get that far. He’s got a long way to go still. He wouldn’t have kissed you today if I hadn’t made him.”

“I wondered about that.”

“Pretty sure that’s why he wants to take you out to that island where he found the Antyons.”

“Yes, I had that thought, too. He still hasn’t asked me the next question.” Whatever it is. “I thought he might ask me when we’re out there.”

“He wants to. He’s fuckin’ dyin’ to. I could smell it even if he hadn’t told me. Maybe today helped.” The Beast chuckles and slides his hand down between my buttocks. He tickles his fingers along my deep cleft, still damp from our earlier activities, until he finds fresh wetness. Then he guides himself into me. “Sure as fuck helped me.”

 

When we rise, Zibon is still and quiet in the early hours of the morning. There is no night shift, although some of Zibon’s inhabitants are night owls, and we see some of them as we make our way down into the metalshop. There, Inker, who apparently never sleeps, is working on an extremely complicated piece of equipment, which he tells us is a broken stabilizer from Elkie’s ship. We help him for several hours, long after whatever shift the Beast might have had has ended. Until Kreon’s rising and my yawns convince the Beast that it is time for bed. 

I cuddle into the Beast’s arms contentedly as soon as he climbs into bed. He turns me onto my side, into one of our usual sleeping positions, and I am grateful that his earlier passion has burned low – at least for now – since I am too tired for more.

“Not sure how well you’re takin’ to this nocturnal thing,” the Beast murmurs.

“Actually, I think I’m taking to it extremely well.” Particularly since the baby has taken to it at last. “I’m just tired, my love. Surely Tomoetu warned you about this?”

The Beast chuckles. “He did. Although he figured it would start earlier. Said you might sleep up to fourteen hours a day. Perfectly normal.”

We usually sleep less than eight, although we are often in bed for much, much longer.

“He seems to have given you a very thorough briefing about what to expect from a pregnant woman.” I am not entirely sure whether to be grateful for, or annoyed by, his thoroughness.

“Yeah, well, I think he was researchin’ it himself.” He’s quiet for a moment, rumbling deep in his chest, as he sometimes does as we’re settling to sleep. “You told me you were fumblin’ along, not knowin’ what you were doin’.”

“With Hardy? Yes, I still am.”

“Yeah? Felt like you might have come to some decision today.”

“Mmm.” I match his rumble, though mine is nowhere near as deep. “I decided today that I could. But truthfully, my love, until I’m there, faced with the decision, I don’t think I’ll know if I can.”

“Yeah, I understand. Thing you gotta realize, Li, is that all of us are fumblin’ along. Tomoetu. Me. Hardy. Everyone. Sure, we all got plans. But the truth is, we’re all fumblin’ along. ‘Specially when it comes to you. None of us know what we’re doin’.”

I take the hand he has resting on my belly, lift it to my lips and kiss his knuckles, before replacing it on my belly. “I would believe that of everyone but you, my love. I have never seen you fumble.”

The Beast kisses the back of my head. “Seen me get thrown into a river.”

I giggle sleepily. Close my eyes. “Actually, I couldn’t see anything over the lip of the bank. Why were you two fighting?”

“Wasn’t fightin’. Not really . . . more like . . . foreplay. It’s hard to explain.” He kisses the back of my head again. Adjusts me in his arms as he settles to sleep. “Told you, wife, I’m just fumblin’ along.” 

“And I will follow you, husband, wherever you might fumble to.”

He rumbles with pleasure. His next breath is deeper. I think to listen to him fall asleep, but I am too fatigued, and my breaths deepen with his, until we breathe together, a sleepy lullaby.

 

I wake overly warm. With the covers pulled too tight over me. I reach out of them sleepily, before I open my eyes, and my fingers touch a broad male chest in front of me.

There is also a broad male chest behind me.

I open my eyes and meet Hardy’s deep brown gaze.

I smile slowly, careful not to startle him, although he startles less easily than he used to. “How do you fare this fine Furyan evening?” I whisper.

“Okay,” he responds. “Couldn’t sleep. It’s time for our baths, so I came to find you, but you were still asleep.”

We were more tired than I thought, to sleep through the whole day and into the evening. And Hardy, finding us, climbed into our bed, as though that was the most natural thing in this new world. As though he belongs here. 

Perhaps he does. 

I slide my hand up his chest, and when he does not flinch, around his neck to pull him to me. I kiss him first, but he responds instantly, pressing his soft, full mouth to mine. He’s still gentle, so gentle, a sweet, light pressure against my lips. Then he opens his mouth and lets me taste him. Dark water. Silent, secret, carrying the faint taste of metal. His mouth tastes of blood. Perhaps I should be repulsed, but I know he is a hunter, and I once was one, too. I have tasted blood many times. My own. That of my kills and my mother’s. There is nothing offensive in that clean copper taste. I slide my tongue into his mouth and drink deep.

He comes up gasping, breaking the kiss. He looks down at me, eyes dark and wild, and for a moment I fear it is too much. I have asked too much of him, too quickly. He will bolt.

A huge arm pushes back the covers, reaches up and grasps the back of Hardy’s head. From behind me, the Beast rumbles, “Where you goin’?”

“Don’t.” Hardy shakes his head and bares his teeth. “I’m no one’s dog. Not even yours.”

“Didn’t ask you to be.” The Beast releases him. He slides up onto one arm and leans over me. “But no one runs out on Liaden. You start somethin’, you need to finish it. Don’t leave her hangin’.”

The Beast kisses me, soft and seering. I arc to him, feeling my body rise, open, flower. There is nothing more that I want in this moment than to be loved by these two men. I cannot let either of them go. I shift onto my back, slide my arm up around the Beast’s neck, and tug my other arm free of the covers until I can put it around Hardy. When the Beast releases my mouth, I roll my head to meet Hardy’s eyes, which are burning, the pupils expanding like black suns. My own eyelids feel heavy, and I know how I must look to him. Fey-eyed, sleep-touseled, my lips red from kissing, my skin flushed with sleep and desire. “Don’t go,” I whisper to him.

His eyes trace my lips. “What happens if I stay?”

“More kissing,” I promise. “And then a bath.”

He gives a choking laugh. “I can’t have a bath like this.”

“This is the perfect time,” I reassure him. “I would very much like to bathe you. Everywhere. Leisurely and at length.” I roll the words around in my mouth and watch his eyes follow my movement greedily. “And if it becomes too much, no one but you will know what the water laves away.”

He reaches for me, presses his forehead against mine. “What if I can’t . . .? Will I still have a future here?”

“Always. But I already know you can kiss. And I have bathed you many times. So there is nothing here you cannot do.”

“Is that all we’re going to do?” he asks, but it is more of a plea than a query.

“Today. Tomorrow, if you wish. Next week. Next month. Next year. We have nothing if not time.”

Even as I say it, I know that is not true. Cays warned me that Shirah’s cycle might start as early as tomorrow. Were Xia kind, I would have both men protected by their desire and my devotion before then. But Xia is not kind. Xia is fierce and demanding, and smiles only on those who prove themselves worthy. I am one of Xia’s chosen. I have proven myself worthy before, and I will do so again. I will fight for the souls of these men. But not by wounding them further, and today, tomorrow, are too soon for the flayed soul who hovers over me, his eyes desperately searching mine.

“You’d really wait that long?”

I reach up and rub my fingers through the short, dense shag of his hair. “Would you wait for me?”

He squeezes his eyes closed. “Forever.”

“Would a woman worthy of such devotion do any less?”

He gives a small snort of laughter. “You know I don’t understand half the things you say.”

“I know a simpler language,” I say. I run my hand down the back of his neck, cup his nape and pull his mouth to mine.

 

The kissing only lasts a short while, because Hardy cannot bear too much. Given how madly arousing the Beast finds watching us, this is fortunate. By the time Hardy rolls away from me, the Beast is grinding his hardness against my hip. I watch Hardy go. He’s not running, although he is definitely retreating, but he heads towards the bathing chamber rather than the outer door.

I look up at the Beast, who has moved to my side to allow me to kiss the other Furyan. The Beast’s eyes are a dark furnace, and I want nothing more to burn inside them.

“He might wait,” I offer.

The Beast closes his eyes as though pained, but he shakes his head. “He’ll be able to hear’n smell us. He ain’t up to that. Or watchin’. Not yet. Fuck, the two of you are killin’ me.”

The Beast kisses my forehead before climbing out of bed. I rise to follow him, relieve him. I cannot leave him in such a state. He waves me away. “Ain’t the first time I’ve had blue balls, Liaden. I’ll be okay. Just gotta think some cold-water thoughts.”

“Would you like me to bring you a basin?”

He chuckles grimly. “No thanks. I’ve done that before. Maybe rememberin’ that’ll help cool me down.”

I nod at him and move towards my dressing chamber to retrieve my bathing robe.

“Uh-uh, Liaden. He may not be ready for touchin’, but he’s been dyin’ to see you naked. Enough with the tents.”

I give him a narrow glare. “My gowns are not tents.”

The Beast holds his arms out at his sides at forty-five degree angles. “Tents. Sexy tents, no question, but tents. Spare us. He wants to see you naked. So do I. Go in and strip for him an’ gimme a minute to cool down.”

“Very well.” If he wants to use my nakedness as a diversion, I will oblige him. We’ll see how diverting he finds my nakedness when we’re both in the bath, where I can touch him in any way I choose, but he is constrained by Hardy’s presence. 

As I move towards the open archway to the bathing chamber, I hear the Beast chuckle behind me, much less grim now. “You wanna play that game? Bring it, Liaden.”

Oh, I shall.

 

Hardy is already in the bath, his clothes in a rumpled pile on the far side of the platform. He is in his usual position, resting against the bath’s rim, arms stretched across the padding, head back, one knee up out of the warm water. But he is not relaxed. Cords of muscle stand out in his chest and shoulders, betraying his tension. He has not bolted. He has stayed as I asked, but it has cost him.

To ensure I do not cost him more than he can pay, I kneel next to him and stroke his forehead, which is furrowed, with my fingertips. When he opens his eyes, I l lean down, letting my hair fall across his face so he is enveloped by my scent, and whisper to him, “I would like to undress for you. Would you like that, or would it be too much?”

“I’d like that,” he says, his tone as thick as the humid air.

“I’d also like to bathe you in a way which might bring you to release. Would you like that, or would it be too much?”

He chokes, but manages, “I’d like that.”

“You can always tell me to stop. Any time. At any moment. If I make you uncomfortable.”

He chuckles, fully as grimly as the Beast only a few minutes before. “Everything makes me uncomfortable.”

I shift so my mouth is level with his, let my breath play over his lips before brushing my lips lightly, so lightly, no more than a promise of a kiss, over his. “Does this make you uncomfortable?”

“No, I’m getting used to that.” He follows my mouth with his, claims a deeper kiss, before I sit back.

I trail my fingers down his cheek, along his lupine jaw. “Some day, you will be used to all of it. There will be no discomfort.” I stroke his lower lip with my thumb. “Only pleasure. I promise you that as surely as I promise you a future here, with us.”

Hardy swallows thickly. “Tell me that, every day, and I’ll believe you.”

“I will,” I promise. “For now, shall we play a game?”

Hardy nods. “Riddick says you never lose.”

“There are only winners in this game. And we play only for our pleasure. If you stop enjoying the game, tell me to stop.”

“Okay.”

“Shall we start with rules?” At his nod, I say, “The first rule is what part you would like to play. Would you like to be in control, or surrender it?”

I already know what he will decide. A Furyan male who gives up control would be a rare beast indeed. Hardy is unique, but he is still a Furyan male.

“In control.”

Surprise, surprise. I keep any smugness off my face as I say, “Very well. You are in control. I will do anything you say.”

“Anything?” He looks more alarmed than excited.

“Anything, even if you tell me to stop.”

His pupils expand, his alarm fading. 

“The first thing you need to tell me is whether you would like to see me from the front or from behind?” I shift on my knees, turning my back to him, so that I can look over my shoulder. I open the tiny pearl buttons on the front of my nightgown, spread the neckline over my breasts and let one thick strap fall off my shoulder.

I hear Hardy swallow. “Uh, from behind?”

A good choice. Prolonging the moment. The ultimate reveal. I rise, first to one knee, then to my feet, so I stand beside the tub. I run my hands along my shoulders, push the other strap off and draw my nightgown down over my breasts. It is loose, but it will catch on my belly. But not before my back and shoulders are bared.

“Shall I tell you how it feels?”

“Yeah.”

“I feel the silk, sliding over my skin. Like feathers. I feel the air touch my skin. It’s warm, wet. Like breath.” I shift my shoulders and feel him follow my motion. “I feel your eyes on me.”

“What’s that feel like?”

“The way I imagine your hands will feel when you caress me. Hot, smooth. Like sliding into black, burning water.”

“My hands are rough.”

I kneel, still with my back to him, and put my hand over his where it rests on the rim of the bath. I stroke his palm and fingertips. “They’re not rough. Not anymore. But even if they were, you touch me so gently, I’d feel nothing but softness.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I don’t believe you ever would.”

“Liaden—“ He chokes and I know I have said the wrong thing.

“Stay with the game,” I coax. “Would you like to see more?”

“Yeah.” He swallows, clears his throat. “I would.”

“Good.” I peel the straps of my nightgown off my arms with my free hand, push it down over my belly and let it pool there, around my thighs, across my knees. My whole back is bared now, all the way down to the valley of my buttocks. I know what he sees, as surely as if I was in his mind the way I am sometimes in the Beast’s. The _di’an_ marks, rich, deep red against my sun-kissed skin. The silver scales of the Collar, set into the dip of my spine, pointing the way to the cleft of my buttocks. I sit there for a moment, letting him look at me, feeling his eyes on me, hot and hungry, before I say, “May I turn around now?”

Hardy rubs his mouth. “Yeah.”

I turn slowly, careful of my balance and my belly. I am more assured after my months with the Beast. I know he finds my body beautiful, my movements graceful. But it is still difficult to expose myself to a strange man, even one so like the Beast. Even one I desire and am coming to adore.

The look in Hardy’s eyes as they travel slowly over my face, my shoulders, my bare breasts, my belly, makes any faint embarrassment vanish like smoke. He does not stare at my breasts, although his eyes linger there for a moment. He takes in the whole of my nakedness, his pupils expanding until there is nothing in his eyes but darkness, and heat rises to his cheeks and throat. 

“Would you like me to stand up?”

He nods.

I stand slowly, ready to push my gown off over my hips, but there is no need. As I rise, Hardy catches the edge of the gown in his fingertips. He gives it a light tug and the gown slithers down my legs. I step out of it. He drags the gown to him, wads it in his hand and buries his face in it. I imagine after sleeping so warm in it, the gown will be rich with my scent.

Hardy lets his head sag back against the cushion, my gown still pressed to his nose. I step into the bath. The warm water rises to my knees, concealing nothing. His dark eyes follow me. As I gather sponge and soap, it occurs to me that the Beast has not yet joined us. This is a long diversion, and I wonder if he decided to relieve himself after all. I would not blame him if he had, but I might be a little jealous of his hand.

_Nope, just lettin’ you be alone with Hardy._

I smile to myself. I hadn’t realized he was paying such close attention to my thoughts. I let him feel my enjoyment of Hardy’s response, and the faint loss I feel whenever my Beast is not with me, so he knows that he is part of this, and missed.

He prowls into the bathing chamber a moment later. He is naked and while not as powerfully aroused as before, he is still obviously excited. I glance at Hardy to gauge his reaction; the Furyan gives no sign of discomfiture. He is aware of the Beast, but he continues to watch me.

The Beast climbs into the bath, lowers himself into his usual place, spreads his arms, tilts back his head and waits for me.

I lather two sponges and begin.


	23. Chapter 23

With soapy sponges and soft touches, I bathe the two men. I am usually circumspect in the bath, letting it be a time of repose. But not today. Today I am free. Today I am wanton. Whenever I can caress the men with my hands or lips, I do. Whenever I can trail my hair along their arms and chests, I do. Whenever I can brush my breasts against warm male flesh, I do. I speak to them, low and sweet, of nothing and anything that comes to mind, so their ears are filled with my voice, as their lungs are filled with my scent and their skin tingling from my touch. Their senses so stimulated, I let the sponges weave sensual paths across their bodies, along their arms, circling their nipples, tracing the ridges of their stomachs and thighs, and always, always returning to that most sensitive place between their legs. The Beast watches me with lazy heat, knowing I will fulfill every touch’s promise later. Hardy has no such assurance. The darkness in his eyes grows and grows, until finally he explodes, catching me up in his arms, pulling me into his lap. He buries his face in my throat, jerks against me and chokes on a cry that could be the hunting call of some great cat, or the death rattle of a demon. I put my arms around him, stroke the back of his head and neck, until he pushes me away and climbs out of the tub.

“I’m clean enough.” He snatches up his clothes and without drying himself, stalks from the chamber.

I sink onto my knees in defeat. “That did not go as I had hoped.”

The Beast puts his arms around me, gathers me to him and sits back in the tub. “Don’t worry. He’ll be back.”

“How can you be sure?”

He kisses the tip of my nose. “I can smell it.” His mouth moves to each cheek, then my mouth, then down my throat. He draws me fully into his lap and without preamble, pulls me down on his phallus. He is as aroused as I have ever felt him, and I have to take him in stages, lifting and lowering myself until I can take him fully. He throws his head back and growls. “Ride me, Liaden.”

I do. I give him all my stoked desire. It does not matter who has brought me to this point, only that I am now with my Beast, and that we are both desperate with need. I drive myself up and down on him, harder than I should, panting, pounding, spurring us both to a spiraling, shattering climax.

Afterward, I lie on his chest, my face in his throat, his hand in my wet hair. He rumbles deep in his chest, telling me without words how much I have pleased him, with everything I have done. I feel it in my mind, too. A saturating sense of approval. He does not want me to think I have failed, not in any small thing.

“Why does Hardy’s happiness matter to you?” I ask quietly.

“’Cause it matters to you.” The Beast strokes my hair back from my face and smiles down into my eyes. “You know what the Elemental calls him? My shadow. She says I’ve woken my own shadow to protect you. Guess I should make sure my shadow’s happy, huh?”

“Have you woken him to protect me?”

“Wasn’t trying to wake him, but havin’ him fall for you’s a big fuckin’ bonus.”

And I feel a shadow move across my mind. A thought that should have coalesced long ago. “Riddick, did you intend this?”

He twitches, and the shadow collapses, compacting tighter and tighter, into a black hole, circling in my mind.

“No,” I say.

“Liaden—”

“No,” I say more firmly. “You have not done this.”

“I told you, I didn’t do it deliberately. It’s just a bonus. If somethin’ happens to me, if someone ghosts me, or Shirah changes me, Hardy’ll be there. He’s not tied here like I am. He don’t have any responsibilities. He’ll follow you to the ends of the universe. He’ll protect you with the last drop of his fuckin’ blood. You and the baby. If you have to run, you won’t be alone.”

“Please, please tell me you didn’t engineer this – all of this – as some sort of reserve, some auxiliary, should you fall.”

His jaw works and he doesn’t answer me.

How could he so coldly, so callously maneuver me into taking another man into my heart? “Riddick—”

“Don’t. I see what you’re thinkin’. You’re thinkin’ I set this all up. Manipulated you. You _chose_ him, Li. You picked him as the one you wanted to help. I’d seen him watchin’ you and I know how the other Furyans respond to you and, yeah, I saw an opportunity to keep you safe. But don’t hold that against him. Or me.”

“And if I do?” I push my fingers into his chest. “Would you let my resentment drive a wedge between us, knowing I’d turn to him for comfort? Would you do that to further your grand design?”

He catches my prodding fingers, lifts them to his mouth and kisses them. “I told you, I’m just fumblin’ along. There’s barely a plan. It’s more me grasping at any fuckin’ straw that waves itself in my direction. I saw an opportunity. I pushed on it. Okay, I pushed on you. An’ him. I just want you to be safe. You’n the baby are the most important things in the universe to me, Li. I gotta know that no matter what happens to me, you’ll be safe.”

I slide both arms around his neck and hold him tight. “What if I had turned away from you? Did you ever think of that?”

“Yeah,” he admits and I feel tension tighten his chest and arms. “I thought about it. Every time I did, I wanted to stick my thumbs right through those sad dog eyes instead of lettin’ him keep lookin’ at you with ‘em. But you kept comin’ back to me. I had to keep believin’ you would. An’ that I was doin’ the right thing. Or I woulda gone crazy.”

“You are crazy to think making your wife fall in love with another man is a worthy plan.” I put my fingers over his mouth when he starts to protest. “Yes, I love him. At least a little. How could I share myself with someone I didn’t love? And I still love you. Always. More now than ever. How could I not when you have risked everything, our future, your happiness, just to ensure my safety should you fall? When did you become so selfless?”

The Beast chuckles against my hand. “You taught me. You’re the most selfless person I ever met.”

“I did not teach you this.”

“The sacrifice play? You sure as fuck did. You remember throwin’ a pair of knives at me when I was just sittin’, mindin’ my own business—”

“Trying to decide which woman to replace me with, as I recall,” I say acidly, remembering the moment well. It was then and will always remain one of the most miserable times of my life: having him dismiss me and then having to watch as he auditioned women to replace me.

“I was never gonna replace you.” He takes my face in his hands and kisses me. “I can’t replace you. That’s what you were sayin’ then, throwing those knives at me. That’s what I’m sayin’ to you now. I can’t replace you, an’ I’ll do anything to protect you. Even if it means watchin’ you with another man.” He gives me a long, hungry kiss. “’Though I gotta say I had no idea how hot that would be.”

I smack the back of his head. “You are an impossible, despicable, tyrannical man.”

“Still love me?”

“Always.”

“No matter what?”

“No matter what.”

 

When I walk into the dining room on the Beast’s arm, I turn heads. Not with my beauty, but with my boldly-bared, bulging belly. He has asked me to wear the hip-hugging pants and short top the Weavers made for me before we left the Armada. He plans to take me down to the beach today, which has ostensibly been cleared, but is still dangerous. So I wear my most deadly outfit.

We sit at the head table again, since most of his commanders are already in the hall. Vaako looks grimly gratified to be sitting at his Lord Marshal’s side again. There is no sign of Halle, and I hope that is because she has already dined, rather than because Vaako rejected her. They would make a good match.

Chef has outdone himself tonight, I think, surveying the table. There is a creamy cold soup to start, perfectly balanced with an acidic undertone to offset the richness. That is followed by a flaky meat pastry, flavored with a strong red mustard. The mustard cuts through the soup’s lingering creaminess, and I recognize Chef’s genius, which is not just in the individual course but in the meal as a whole, each new dish complimenting the one before, but also refreshing the palate so the new flavors can be savored. I remind myself to distill some of the new native herbs for Chef. He likes to use ingredients fresh, in the main, but has always appreciated the distillations I have made for him in the past. He has more than earned some new ones.

There is no sign of Hardy as we eat, and I feel his absence at my side like the Void, swirling and cold. I pushed him too far, asked too much of him. He said he would like it if I brought him to release, but he wasn’t ready. That’s why he fled. I should have read him better, taken our game more slowly, and given him what he needed instead of what he said he could take. I will know better next time.

I am preparing a plate for the Beast from the next course, a strange, crumbly cake that seems to involve nuts and a sticky white curd, with a topping of honey to offset the curd’s sourness, when the Void at my side explodes with warmth.

Hardy sits down next to me and puts his arm across my back as he leans over to say something to the Beast.

I close my eyes briefly as my heart swells. He came back. He touched me. However I fumbled in the bath, I have not failed.

I set the plate in front of the Beast, then make another for Hardy and a third for myself. I sit back into the warmth of his arm and he shifts a little on the bench. Not crowding me, just framing me with his big body and the Beast’s. It is as gentle as any of his other touches. As loving. As welcome.

I pour him a goblet of nectar, then begin eating Chef’s cake before I say to him in an undertone, so that no one but he will hear, “I am sorry if I went too far, if I ruined our game.”

“You didn’t,” he murmurs. “It just took me by surprise. It’s been a long time for me. Next time’ll go better.”

That there will be a next time makes my heart sing. “Riddick and I are taking a skimmer down to the beach later. Would you like to come with us?”

“No, I’m going hunting. But I’ll be back in time for bed.”

Will he be coming to bed with us? “I will ask Riddick.”

“I already did. He said his side’s the right.”

I hide a smile in my cake. The Beast and I do not have set sides of the bed. We move around as convenient. But if the Beast wishes to be on the right, it is so I can lie next to him with my head on his heart. “Should I wear a gown to bed?”

“Tonight. Tomorrow, if you want. Next week. Next month. Next year, no. Definitely not.”

I cannot hide my smile. Although he claims not to understand the things I say, although he has neither the Beast’s erudition nor quicksilver mind, Hardy is clever and I love the word-games he plays with me. “Can I come to see you off?”

He leans in and whispers to me, “You going to kiss me good-bye?”

“I will bid you farewell, in whatever manner you allow. But I will never say good-bye to you.”

It is his turn to smile, and smile he does, with that soft, full mouth, revealed now that he is clean-shaven. He is not handsome, not in the classic sense. He is too dark, too lupine. All sharp angles and burning eyes. But he is beautiful when he smiles, and I feel privileged that he smiles for me.

Gvenne and the legionnaire Leto accompany us to the hangar after our meal. Leto carries an oversized quiver with arrows and short spears. An edged bolo hangs from his belt. Although he still dresses in Necromonger scalecloth, he wears little armor, just greaves over high leather boots. He greets Hardy familiarly, and I realize that he is Hardy’s hunting partner.

How different from my Beast, who always hunts alone.

Gvenne farewells Leto with nothing like traditional Necromonger restraint. I am constrained by the other couple’s presence, not wanting to feed the rumor mill, but the Beast feels no such stricture. He wraps his arms around both of our necks and pushes me into Hardy. The Furyan takes me in his arms, shapes my face with one hand, and kisses me in his gentle way. His sweet, soft kisses make me melt. I quiver with longing, pressing myself against him, even as the Beast draws us both tight to him and nuzzles me behind my ear. Participating in our farewell in his own way. Until this moment, I had not considered the Beast’s feelings for Hardy, other than as ancillary to my own. What feeling does a man have for his shadow? Is Hardy a part of the Beast as much as he is becoming part of me? Does the Beast miss him when he is not with us as much as I do?

When Hardy releases me, the Beast claims my mouth. Sliding his tongue across my lips. Tasting Hardy through me. He rumbles deep in his chest. Does he savor that dark water taste as much as I do?

Hardy stays within the tight triangle of our bodies, watching the Beast kiss me, as the Beast has watched Hardy. When we’re done, Hardy reaches up and runs his hands over both our heads. His gentle caress. Then he shoulders his own harness of weapons and moves away, up the skimmer’s ramp, knocking Leto with his elbow as he passes, so the legionnaire breaks from Gvenne’s embrace and follows the Furyan hunter.

Arm-in-arm with the Beast and Gvenne, I watch until their skimmer is a dot on the red horizon.

While the Beast leads a late training for the legionnaires, Gvenne and I retire to the Polishers’ laboratory and prepare my next weapon in the war with Shirah.

Gvenne takes me on a quick tour of the laboratory, which is a monument to aesthetics, with dozens of treatment chairs, beds and alcoves. I am not sure what all the vials, tubes, and wires do, but they are fascinating, and I make a mental note to come back and explore the laboratory when I have some leisure time.

Gvenne takes me past the central treatment area and into back rooms that are clearly workspaces. Vats and tubs hiss and bubble quietly to themselves, making unguents for which I have no name. Gvenne shows me to a curtained alcove where the legionnaires have kindly left the two buckets of clay. We tip them out into a long, shallow trough and with the paddles Gvenne provides, begin working the clay through a wide sieve to filter out the leaves, branches, roots, and impurities we find. Although I am tempted to leave in a few insect carcasses, Gvenne assures me that what I have planned will be revenge enough.

“She could smother, you know,” Gvenne says as we work.

“Really?” That seems appropriate. “I didn’t realize people respirated through their skin.” Maybe it’s a Furyan thing.

Gvenne giggles. “I didn’t mean it like that. We don’t breathe through our skins. We perspire, though. With every pore coated with something as sticky as this.” Gvenne holds up a paddle of the clay we’re working. “She won’t be able to regulate her body temperature at all. She’ll overheat.”

Delightful. “She wants the men to burn for her. Let her have a taste of her own medicine.”

“Is that why you hate her?”

“I don’t hate her. I pitied her. I thought she was an innocent pawn of Furyan tradition and chemistry. I don’t believe that anymore. She tortures the Furyans with her fear. She tried to kill me by Nadie’s hand. If she doesn’t want my pity, then she can feel my wrath.”

Gvenne stares at me open-mouthed.

“What?” I ask.

“You sounded just like the Lord Marshal then.”

I laugh. “Furyans, they’re infectious.”

Once we finish straining the clay, Gvenne taps in a container of _selius_ , a powder that the Polishers used to help women of the court achieve the svelte Necromonger ideal. The selius powder is deep orange in color and mixing it into the clay turns the unprepossessing clay a lovely sunset shade. Finally, I pour in a vial of _supone_ , which I use in making soaps. It has a pleasant odor, like geraniums, to offset the clay’s dank stink, and will help break down the dead outer layer of Shirah’s skin.

So that the living layers better absorb the selius, which will destroy her natural cycle.

“How did you think of this?” Gvenne asks as we mix the supone into the clay.

“Master Tomoetu.”

“Master Tomoetu suggested using selius on the Furyan woman?”

“Not exactly. Early in my pregnancy, he had me rub selius cream into my skin every day. And eat wild yam. I ate so much of it in my first trimester that I thought I would turn orange. Both are rich sources of progesterone, which helps prevent miscarriage, but it’s also the hormone that ends a woman’s fertile period and induces her menses. That’s what I want to do to Shirah. As soon as her fertile period ended, the Furyans recovered. I need only induce her menses early to break her hold over them. I could feed her nothing but wild yam, I suppose, but the selius is better. It will absorb through her skin. The clay and supone will prevent the Furyans from smelling her in the meanwhile.”

That so much progesterone will make her lethargic, depressed and irritable is, as the Beast would say, simply a bonus.

We finish mixing the clay. With the impurities removed, the volume is reduced, and it all fits into one bucket. I cover the bucket with gauze so the clay will remain supple before I use the Polisher’s lens to call the legionnaire Faz.

He takes my instructions stoically. He does not question why I would want the Furyan woman coated in clay twice a day. When I say to tell her it is “for her skin,” Faz simply nods.

“I will ensure it is done, Lady Liaden,” he says. “If she resists, I will put it on her myself.” His blue eyes linger on the scar at the base of my throat.

“I’m perfectly fine now, Faz,” I say to reassure him.

“Lady, I’ve seen death on many worlds, many times. Few worse than the one you faced. None of us believe the Traitor Nadie acted alone. She wasn’t smart enough. That you move now against the Furyan woman shows where the true blame lies. I will make sure she pays for what she did to you.”

“Thank you, Faz.” I rest my hand on his forearm. “I know the Lord Marshal reprimanded you that day for failing to protect me. But the only ones to blame are Nadie and the hand that moved her. I owe you my life. I will never forget that. Nor your loyalty now.”

“You have it always, Lady.” He salutes me before taking the bucket and departing, his boots ringing on the polished tile floor.

Gvenne draws up beside me and offers me a bowl and cloth to wipe off the clay that has spattered on my hands and forearms while I’ve been mixing. When I finish, she takes my hands and rubs them with hers. “There’s much more to this, isn’t there?” When I nod, she says. “You have such strong hands. Would you let me paint them?”

Remembering the pretty design on her hands when we first met, I nod. “Yes, I’d like that.”

“Will you tell me the whole story while I paint?”

“Gladly.”

For all her light-heartedness, Gvenne proves a good, and surprisingly blood-thirsty, listener. As I explain the web of desire and pain Shirah weaves around the Furyans, as Gvenne details a design of pink and white roses up my arms with her tiny brushes, she exhorts me to kill all the Furyans.

“Is that how we baptize our new world? With the blood of its elders?” I ask as I hold one hand up to admire her work. Each rose is different, individual. They are not Caprunes nor Calimbrees nor wild roses. They are Gvenne’s inventions, but no less lovely for being wholly imagined.

“In a few years,” she says. “They will be forgotten. This world will be ours. And your daughter will be the first true Furyan.”

“Or the last. Killing begets more killing. That is the true Necromonger Way. We’ve turned from that to start afresh on this new world. Killing those few survivors of the first holocaust does not seem like a good way to start over.”

Gvenne snorts. “Millions died here. Leto’s told me about the grave fields. Thirty more will make no difference.”

“One more makes a difference. Depending on who the one is. Shirah holds her life no less precious than I hold mine, or the Lord Marshal’s, or our daughter’s—”

“Or Hardy’s.” Gvenne winks at me.

“Or Hardy’s,” I concede. “There are others who hold her life in such high regard and they may not all reside on Furya. That is how the cycle of killing will be perpetuated. But there’s more to it than that. We battle for the soul of Furya. Will we be nothing more than a planet of killers? How can we turn from a life of reaping to a life of sowing if we begin by salting the earth we intend to plant? There has to be another way.”

Gvenne sniffs. “Being a Necromonger is simpler.”

“That’s very true.” My life was a great deal simpler as Zhylaw’s concubine. Every moment of my day was ordered. Every thought structured. But I was dead inside. Life with the Beast is a great deal more chaotic, but it has brought me a thousand lifetimes of joy. I would never, ever go back to what I was.

“There,” she says, finishing the last rose on my forearm. “What do you think?”

“I think I’ve never seen anything more beautiful, not in any garden. They’re exquisite, Gvenne. Thank you so very much.”

She hugs me, then says wickedly, “Will you tell me truthfully what it’s like being with two men?”

I smile and shake my head. “Truthfully, I cannot begin to explain.”

At curfew, we part with hugs and promises that we will see each other tomorrow. I have forgone tea while the Beast established his new nocturnal routine, but now that it is more settled, I have found the odd hour when I might have tea again. I invite Gvenne, who accepts delightedly. We can go easily from tea in my solarium to dancing in my garden, and I find myself anticipating the next evening with pleasure.

In the meanwhile, I have Furya’s night to enjoy with the Beast. When I meet him in the hangar, we smile at each other like naughty children. The hangar is empty now, past curfew, with only a night guard doubling as a mechanic as he works on a grease-coated collection of tubes spread across his station. He nods at the Beast when we pass, and I wonder if the Beast has told him we would be taking a skimmer out in breach of curfew, or whether he simply does not question the Lord Marshal.

The beach at night is more beautiful than I could have imagined. From Zibon, the dunes obscure much of the beach. The black sand beach we visited had a comparatively short expanse of sand between dunes and sea. Zibon’s beach, which the Beast tells me the legionnaires call the Cultine, is three times as wide. A long expanse of sand sloping down into the water. The beach is naturally gradated. Closest to the rocky, grassy dunes, there is a wide band of stones. They start as broad, tumbled boulders and end with tiny pebbles. Then there is a band of dry sand, hard-packed and crunchy underfoot. This band glitters darkly in the moonlight and the Beast tells me that the sand contains a reflective mineral that is used in the metal that Necromongers forge. Useful as well as decorative.

“Is that why you picked this beach?”

The Beast smiles at me. “Nope, picked it ‘cause of the lava field up there.” He nods at the clifftop above us, a gray ribbon in the darkness, broken by the silver falls of the Anzoa’s branches. “You said that’s what you wanted for your garden.”

I did, and he listened to me. I turn and slide my arms around his waist. “Have I told you recently how proud I am of this fine home you have won for us?”

“Don’t think you’ve ever said that.”

I’m sure I have. Several times. “Then let me say it now. No matter what challenges we face here, I cannot think of any better home for us. I love Zibon. I love Furya. I love living with you here. I would never want to live anywhere else.”

He hugs me to his side and kisses the top of my head. “She’s not gonna drive us away.”

“No one will.” I squeeze his lean waist. “Not even you. So please stop scheming to drive me into the arms of other men.”

“Just Hardy. He ain’t really ‘other men’.”

His words catch at me. Does he truly feel so connected to the other Furyan? Why? “Riddick, do you think you could be related, you and Hardy?”

He shrugs. “Dunnow. Hadn’t thought about it.”

I make a mental note to research Hardy’s family, if I can find any records. I don’t even know if Hardy is his first name or his last. It would explain much if Hardy and the Beast shared more blood than just the few drops they exchanged on our wedding day.

We walk together along the band of dry, glittering sand. The Beast collects shells for me. There is a huge variety, a testament to the abundance of life in Furya’s oceans. I point out the larger ones to the Beast, thinking to use them for decoration in my gardens, and quickly have an armful of shells.

The Beast bends over for a particularly fine spiral shell, creamy and striped with red like a tiger, when I see a ripple in the sand behind him.

“Riddick!”

He turns and I point out the ripple, fearful of Sand Lowen.

“Put those down and get your darts ready,” the Beast says.

I ready not just my darts but Hannelore. The Beast seems very calm, but then he has faced these monsters before. He searches the beach for a large rock, which he tosses on his palm for a moment as he watches the sand ripple. Then he throws it a quarter-meter ahead of the ripple.

There’s a surge of sand and a long dun-colored creature shoots out of the sand. Before it reaches the rock, the Beast reaches down, grabs it behind its bulbous head and hauls it out of the sand. It twists in his grasp, hissing, flicking out a black double-tongue. The creature is blind, or at least I cannot see any eyes, but large, dull red, tympanic membranes run down the sides of the creature’s head. In deference to the creature’s sensitive hearing, I whisper, “What is it?”

The creature strains its triangular head in my direction, flicks its strange double-tongue at me.

“Furyans call ‘em Charos. Some kinda sand worm. Don’t get much bigger than this here, but on one of the other continents, they get bigger than a skimmer. I saw ‘em in the deep desert, gathered together, fightin’ and matin’. Not much woulda made me land and take a closer look, lemme tell you.” He chuckles.

“Are they good meat?” I ask, always interested in now the native fauna might enhance Zibon’s larder.

The Beast shakes his head. “They’re all slime, and lotsa little bones. Chef said they might be good for soup, but not much else. I caught a couple for him. He wasn’t impressed.”

I shrug. Most things are edible, but fewer are palatable.

“Here’s the best part about ‘em. Watch.”

The Beast flicks his wrist and tosses the wriggling creature down the beach onto the band of wet sand close to the water. It rolls a meter across the sand, then rights itself and begins trying to burrow down into the sand. But it is far too slow to evade a triangle of night that drops out of the sky, snatches the worm with talons as big as my fingers, and shoots back up into the night sky. The whole attack is completely silent and leaves nothing more than a few grooves in the sand where the raptor’s talons dug in, which will be filled by the wash of the next wave.

I scan the sky for some sign of the aerial predator, but can see nothing. “Is it, is it a bird?”

“Not sure,” the Beast replies. “I haven’t gotten a good look at one. Their wings look leathery to me, but they could have feathers. I can’t tell. I haven’t seen any durin’ daylight. Haven’t found any roostin’. Their speed’s like nothin’ I’ve seen. And they love those worms. Guess they like slime.”

I pick up my shells, loop my arm through the Beast’s and walk beside him again. “Do the Furyans know what they are?”

“Never mentioned ‘em.”

Furya reveals its secrets slowly. “This is such a rare and beautiful world, Riddick.”

“Yeah. It is, ain’t it?”

“Have you been to many other worlds?”

“Couple dozen.”

“I hadn’t been to a world other than Tarenge until I Converted. Not that I remember anyway. My parents moved cross-quadrant when I was very young. I thought Tarenge the most beautiful planet in the universe until I saw Jeranda. It was a true paradise. But now that I have seen Furya, all other worlds pale in comparison.”

“Yeah?” The Beast chuckles. “I usually only got to see the cellar of whatever world I was on, but I haven’t seen anywhere better than Furya.”

“We won’t be the only ones to appreciate Furya’s beauty and bounty. Aereon said other invaders would come eventually.”

“Yeah, I thought about that. It’s a big world. Be a long time before we fill it. Long as they leave us alone, I’m not sure we care if there’s another colony on the planet.”

“What if they care about us?”

“Then we kill ‘em all. Don’t go thinkin’ ‘cause I’ve held off killin’ the Furyans that I won’t kill the next nosy fucks that come along.”

Now he sounds like my Beast.


	24. Chapter 24

I am occupied with my treasures from the beach until after sunrise. The Beast returns from a morning meeting with his commanders yawning, and taking the hint, I climb into bed with him and let the great lens darken. We lie together for long minutes, with him on my right and my head on his chest, listening as his heartbeat slows and his breathing deepens. My own eyelids get heavier and heavier until I finally let myself drift.

Even in my dreams, I am aware that Hardy has not joined us.

I am hunting again, through the snow-draped forests of Tarenge. But now it is night, the white landscape lit by Tarenge’s four moons and weirded by skittery shadows. I check the snares I have set. One, two, a dozen. They are all empty. He has not come back. I have caught nothing. If this were a memory, my mother would be by my side. She never left me, and I was never afraid. 

But this is not a memory. I am alone, and I am afraid.

Rising from the last empty trap, I hear noises, which should be muffled by the snow but instead ring across it like stone on stone, steel on steel. Men’s voices. I am a hunter of men, and I should not fear them. They are my prey, these soft Feleti men. I have tasted my mother’s kills and I know their flesh is fat and rich. My mouth should water at the thought.

Instead, my mouth is dry. My hands, gripping my bow and arrows, shake. The voices in the distance are not soft Feletis. They are hard, low voices. The voices of hunters.

And I am the hunted.

I turn and run down the path cut into the snow by my own boots. The cold bites deep, turning my feet clumsy, my legs leaden. I have none of my usual speed. The cold, and my heavy belly, weigh me down.

The voices draw closer. I recognize them. Greer. Booth. Their voices are guttural, thick with lust. I push my body harder, faster. Zibon is not far. Surely I can outrun them. 

But there is no great steel head rising from the cliffs. There is only snow, endless snow, and moonlight, and the strange black shadows that draw in, gibbering, reaching for me with their clawed hands, pulling me off the trail, into the darkness where there is only cold. 

I wake shivering, clutching at the sheets. There is no warm body next to me. I scan the room and find the Beast sitting at his desk, reading something on his lens. When he sees me wake he rises, takes off his skullcap and comes to sit on the edge of the bed. His smile is strained, and his eyes mere pinpricks of silver in a well of shadow.

No, surely her cycle could not have started already.

“Nightmare?” he asks.

“Yes, you?”

He nods. 

“Were you in the jungle?” I ask, remembering his previous dreams.

“No, somewhere cold.”

He could have been picking up on my nightmare. Or maybe I incorporated his into mine. Either way, our shared dreaming benefits neither of us. I reach up and run my fingertips across his troubled brow. “Would you like to come back to bed?”

“Depends on how tired you are.”

I wriggle down into the sheets. “Actually, I would say it depends on how tired you are. Do you know what I was dreaming about?”

He lifts an eyebrow at me. “What?”

“Setting snares. My mother and I made them of the finest white twine, so they would be invisible against the snow. As I recall, we have some white silk, do we not?”

All constraint leaves the Beast’s smile. “Yeah, we do.”

“Might I show you how we made snares, and then you can see what you can catch in one?” I slide my arms up over my head and drape my wrists one over the other on the pillow. The Beast’s argent gaze tracks each motion.

“Only one thing I’m interested in catchin’,” he says.

Truthfully, he has already caught it, but he still enjoys the chase, and I give him one, to our mutual delight.

 

When we rise at sunset, the Beast’s eyes are still smudged, but I cannot say whether that is because of his dreams or because of the long interruption in our repose. I plan to lure him back to bed after training and his bath, which is abbreviated without Hardy, who does not appear and sends no word. At our breakfast and Zibon’s dinner, Gvenne finds me. She checks on the lovely rose design, which has held up well against touch, sweat and immersion, and tells me that she has heard from Leto. He and Hardy are far to the south, past the grave fields, on the trail of the largest group of Antyons they have seen. 

“Did he tell you when they would be back?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Didn’t Hardy say?”

“No,” I say, grudgingly admitting that I have had no word. “But they are hunting and a hunt takes as long as it takes.” A Daixian truth that seems to apply on Furya as well.

Gvenne gives me a hug and I realize that I sound forlorn. I give myself a mental shake. There is no reason for me to be forlorn. I know well the nature of the two men I love. They cannot be caged. It would be my greatest fumble, far greater than my error in the bath, to prevent either of them from acting on their instincts. I can only set them free, and trust that they will come back to me in their own time. 

It would be nice if they would let me know when that was, however.

“You’ll still come dancing tonight, won’t you?” Gvenne asks.

“Of course I will.” I missed a night’s dancing while recovering from Nadie’s attack. I will not miss another. Especially not because I am pining for my lover. When I have no reason to pine. And he is not yet my lover.

“Good.” Gvenne leaves me with a kiss on the cheek and I smile after her. I am blessed in my choice of friends, and I offer silent thanks to Xia, who may be fierce, but understands the need for companions through the great Hunt of Life.

I turn back to the Beast, who sits beside me. He’s drinking a cup of thyme and rosehip tea that I have made him. I can tell by the twist of his mouth that it is not a mix he favors, but thyme is known for relieving nightmares. Although I do not think it will be wholly successful, it cannot hurt, either.

Nor should a second application of clay, which I hope Faz is applying even as I say to the Beast, “My love, do you think we can learn from our mistakes?”

“Don’t see why not.” He takes another sip of tea. “I’m learning from this one.”

“It’s therapeutic,” I tell him. “I made a mistake the first time Hardy returned from a hunt. It would like not to repeat it.”

The Beast shrugs. “Turned out okay.”

True, but I’d rather not leave it to chance and a handful of seedlings. “I’d like to welcome him back. Him and Leto, of course. Could we have a party?”

The Beast lifts an eyebrow. “A party?”

“A celebration.”

“Necros don’t do parties.”

“Do Furyans?” I ask.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Dunnow. Do we?”

“I’d like to. With your sanction, of course.”

“Said I was behind you two hundred percent.”

“Does that include parties?”

“Sure.”

“Will you dance at the party?”

The Beast chuckles. “You’re not sellin’ this to me, Liaden.”

I quit while I’m ahead. “Shall I plan it for two nights hence? He’ll be back by then, don’t you think?”

“Make it three to be sure.”

I feel myself shrivel inside, whether it is my stomach or my heart, I cannot tell. Three days? Would he stay away so long? “Three, then. Can we have it outside, in Eden?”

“Yeah. Tell Chef. We’ll dig a pit. Have dinner out there. Roast an Antyon or two.”

I can think of no finer way to welcome Hardy home. I lean over and kiss his cheek.

Never content with such a small display, the Beast sweeps me across his lap and kisses me soundly. His mouth is sour with thyme and rosehips. I come up from our kiss sputtering, with a speedy promise never to make him that tea again.

 

The tea is no more effective than it is palatable. He wakes me thrashing in a nightmare that has him sweating as though he’d run the length and breadth of Furya. My kisses do not wake him this time. I have to shake him until he wakes with a start. He lashes out with an incautious elbow, throwing me off him. My tumble across the bed is arrested by the bedpost and I hitch myself up against it, rubbing the back of my head.

“Fuck! Liaden.” He’s beside me in a second, on his knees in the rumpled covers, collecting me tenderly in his arms, laying me across the bed and thumbing aside my hair to inspect my bruised scalp.

“I’m fine.” I reach up and stroke his cheek to reassure him.

He leans in and presses his forehead against mine. “Tell me again not to kill her.”

“I’d rather you invite her to our party.”

“Fuck no.” Ah, there’s that predictability again. I lift an eyebrow at him and his mouth twists. “Why?”

“So she can see what she’s missing.” I reach up and wind my arms around his neck. Pull him down to me and kiss him. “I can’t show her this, but I can show her the joy we bring to this dead planet. The life she could share if she’d abandon her poisoned dream and join us.”

“Yeah? You think that’s the way to reach her?”

“Nothing else has worked.”

“Knife’d work.”

I shake my head and smile up at him. He’s not going to kill her. He would have by now if he was going to, and he’s goading me to talk him out of it. “You can knife her after the party.”

“That’d end it with a bang.”

“Well, you wouldn’t want your first soiree to be anything less than memorable.”

He chuckles, and rolls so that I am above him. My shadow falls across him, and his eyes gleam in the penumbra as he looks up at me. Through our lens, at my back, Prokris burns blood-orange and I know I must be limned in its light. I shake my hair back, stretch and twine my arms above my head. His heated growl tells me that he sees exactly what I wish him to see. “Too bad we can’t show her this. That’d shut her up.”

I lean over him and offer him my throat, then my breast, which he takes greedily. “I would do anything for you, my love. But I draw the line at sharing this with Shirah. This is ours, and ours alone.”

He runs his hand down my back, reaches between us and guides himself into me. I take him slowly, in increments, my body expanding each time I lower myself onto him, until I can take him fully. We both groan with pleasure at our completed union. As I begin to ride him, he feeds me an image, of this moment, but with an addition. Not Shirah. Hardy, rising behind me on the bed, pulling me back against his chest, his mouth on my throat, licking the Beast’s taste from my skin, his hands covering the Beast’s on my breasts, his body rising and falling with mine, sharing this blissful moment, joining with us, elevating bliss to rapture.

The Beast’s fantasy brings me, brings us both, to an explosive conclusion in mere minutes. I collapse across his chest and he strokes my shoulders and back, rumbling deep in his throat the way he does when he is at his most content. “Is that what you want?” I ask breathlessly. “To share me so completely?”

“Yeah. I know it’ll take him a while to get there. Don’t push him. Let him get there in his own time.”

“I thought you wanted him to watch?”

“Yeah, at first. Then I want him to join us.” He lifts his head and looks down at me. “Are you okay with that?”

I let his question roll through my mind. I remember the moments between the three of us. Lying together in the grass and in this very bed. Kissing. The heightened excitement of being loved by both men. The deep bond I feel forming between the three of us, strengthening with each small, shared intimacy. “Yes. Yes, I am.”

He strokes my hair, winds strands of it around his fingers. “I wouldn’t do this with anyone else, Li. Wouldn’t share you with anyone but him.”

“I know. I don’t know why him, but I do know.”

“Told you, you chose him. Somethin’ about him called to you just like it called to me.”

“I believe that was the state of his feet.”

The Beast chuckles. “More’n that an’ you know it.”

“Well, it is a relief to hear that you won’t share me with anyone else. Although Elkie will be deeply disappointed.”

His chuckle becomes a full belly laugh.

 

After dancing, our numbers swollen to over fifty and beginning to exceed the capacity of the green in my garden, I approach Tirea with the idea of the party. She claps delightedly. “Outside, in Eden?”

“Yes, I thought we could move most of the tables and benches from the dining hall, so we’ll only need a few new ones for serving—”

Tirea shakes her head. “No, we’ll make tables and chairs fit for Eden. And a pavilion. We should have a pavilion, don’t you think? In case it rains.”

“I didn’t want to add to your burdens with this, Tirea.”

“It’s not a burden! It’s a party. I haven’t been to a party in . . .” Her eyes dim. “I can’t remember when, Li.”

I take her hands. “No, me neither. So it will be a pleasant diversion, but I don’t want it to become a chore.”

She squeezes my hands. “It’s no chore. I’m looking forward to it so much already.”

Gvenne, who has been standing nearby, says wistfully, “It would be nice to go to a party.”

I release one of Tirea’s hands to reach out to Gvenne. “You’re invited, of course. It’s in Leto’s honor, too. Everyone can come.”

“Really?” she smiles. “I assumed it would just be for the Lord Marshal and his friends.”

I pull her to me and hug her hard. “You are his friend. He cares about each and every person in Zibon.”

“Except the Furyan woman,” she says mischievously.

“Actually, Shirah’s invited, too.”

Gvenne draws back, incomprehension creasing her pretty face. “Why?”

“I want her to see that there’s more to us than hatred and prisons. We bring life to this world.” I touch my belly. “We bring hope and a future. She could be part of that if she chose to.”

Tirea nods. “We all want to be part of that.”

“Then we just have to show her.”

The party planning diverts me, both from the disruption of the Beast’s sleeping patterns and Hardy’s absence. Everywhere I go, everyone I turn to, greets the idea with such open enthusiasm that I feel foolish for not having suggested it earlier.

Until I run into the storm-crow that is Vaako.

“This thing you plan, this party.” He says the word as though it has sharp edges that hurt his mouth to pronounce. “It is unwise.”

I tap my worktable to save my program. He has cornered me at my station in the botanics lab, where I am working on relocating a field of taruut to accommodate Tirea’s pavilion. I plan to leave the area unplanted after the party, in the hopes of holding many more there.

“I am sorry you think so. Is there anything I can do to accommodate your concerns?”

“Call it off.”

Of course. There is no room for compromise in his frame. He is still, first and always, a Necromonger commander.

“I would prefer not to. Is there any specific concern of yours that I can address? I am willing to change my plans, but not cancel them.”

He sneers at me. “That is always the way with you, isn’t it? You divert, like a river running around a rock, but you always return to your course.”

I put down my stylus with a snap. “Is there something particular to which you refer?”

“You have tried to steer me the way you do the Lord Marshal. From the moment he took the throne. That song you sang him, branding me traitor. Killing Saiuda. Taking Mhina away from me and now throwing Halle in my path. I will not be led by a woman, Liaden.”

“I am sorry you think I have tried to steer you. I killed Saiuda because she tried to kill me. She saw an opportunity to take my place with the Lord Marshal. You know that and you still blame me. I have no idea what you mean about Mhina. She was my friend and I miss her. I introduced you to Halle because I saw your loneliness and wanted to help. I have not tried to lead you. I have endured your slights because the Lord Marshal loves you, but I will not endure this. Say what you have to say and go. Do not try to disrupt my plans for this party, or any other thing. Perhaps I am the river that always returns to its course, but if I am and you are the boulder that stands in my way, think well on what happens to boulders in riverbeds.”

“You will not wear me down.”

“We will see,” I snap. Then instantly regret my words. The Beast does care for him, and Vaako loves the Beast in his own way. “Vaako, Vaako, I’m sorry.” I rub my hand over my eyes. Feel the heaviness of my own eyelids. It has been another day of interrupted sleep and nightmares. Another day in which Hardy did not return. Did not send word. I begin to fear he will not return in time for his own party. “Riddick is not sleeping, so I am not sleeping, and it has made my temper short. I will listen to anything you have to say. If I can change my plans to accommodate you, I will.”

Vaako leans his hip against my worktable. “I had heard that your . . . condition . . . made sleep difficult. I thought that was the cause of the Lord Marshal’s unrest.”

I shake my head. “I would leave him to sleep in peace if that was the case.”

“I know you . . . care very much for him.” Vaako’s mouth works. A muscle pulses in his jaw. “In your way. Maybe the things you do are to that end, if misguided.”

“What have I done that was so misguided?”

“You allowed yourself to breed, is that not enough?”

I ball my hands in my lap, to keep myself from slapping him. “I allowed nothing. This is what Riddick asked of me. I intended to take the Knife, if you will recall, and follow Zhylaw. Riddick asked me to live, and give him a family, and be his wife—”

“His _wife_.” Vaako snorts. “His whore. First he takes you from Zhylaw as his prize. Who knows whether the creature in your belly is his or Riddick’s—”

I do slap him then, and he stumbles back in surprise before raising his fist to me.

“Hit me and I will kill you,” I tell him, drawing Hannelore and laying her on the worktop beside me. “Zhylaw never touched me. The only man I have known is Riddick.” Although that may not be the case for much longer. “I am his wife, and I do as he wishes. He stands behind each decision I make. If you come between us, it will not be the river that wears you down. It will be the tsunami that breaks you.”

Vaako glowers at me. “I would never go against the Lord Marshal.”

“Yet you stand here and call his wife a whore.”

“When she lies with other men—”

“At his command and for his pleasure! Do you think I would take another man into my heart without his direction?”

“You took Riddick into your heart quickly enough after Zhylaw’s death—”

“You took Mhina into your bed quickly enough after Saiuda’s death!” I throw back at him. “I never loved Zhylaw. Not the way I love Riddick. You of all people should know that. Your love for him turned to hatred long before mine did.”

“You made sure to pluck her back out, didn’t you? Why, didn’t she suit your schemes?”

“What are you talking about?!”

“Mhina. Mhina! Was that piece of work so insignificant that you’ve forgotten it already? Has the river rushed on to its next boulder?!”

“I have no idea what you mean. I was honored to call Mhina my friend. My heart broke when she and Chione decided to stay with the Armada. I miss them every day—”

“No!” Vaako roars and I reach for Hannelore. “You told her. You told her of that.” He points at my belly, his gloved finger quivering in rage. “She feared I would ask it of her—”

“I never told Mhina of my pregnancy.”

“Liar! She spent the day with you, in your freezer, and when she returned she told me she would not come to Furya.”

I think back to those last days in the Armada. Mhina did spend time with me, helping me to freeze the seedlings that would accompany us to Furya. But we never discussed my pregnancy. Not once. “I told no one, Vaako. No one but Nazya and that is because she had already guessed. Tomoetu knew. Cays. And Riddick of course. But no one else. How could I risk it, knowing it would be seen as Heresy?”

Vaako grips my worktop and sags against it. “Tomoetu. He is her uncle.”

“I cannot believe he told her, but I swear to you I never said a word. She said nothing to me of her decision not to come to Furya. I would have tried to persuade her.”

“She never wanted to come,” he says softly, as though admitting it to himself. “She longed for the Threshhold. Some old pain she would not share with me. She said the Underverse would cleanse her. She longed for it.”

I put my hand on his arm. “I hope she finds what she needs.”

He looks up at me, eyes pyretic. “What of what I need?”

“I hope you find it here, on Furya. Maybe with Halle. Maybe with someone else. There is joy and life to be found here, Vaako. You need only seek it.”

“The river returns to her course,” he says, but it is without bitterness.

“If my course is a future of happiness rather than pain, then I will not apologize for being relentless. I will apologize for the pain I have caused you, knowingly and unknowingly. I cannot undo what has been done. Tell me how to avoid causing you pain in the future and I will try.”

Vaako shakes his head. “I am not the Lord Marshal. I cannot see into the future.”

“Neither can he, although I appreciate it may seem so.”

“Blasphemer,” Vaako says, although there is an edge of humor to his voice.

“I am what he has made me.” I rub my hand down over my belly. “Tell me why you object to the party.”

“He will be too exposed. Both of you will be. Do you think I call him to his table every day because I relish his company at each meal? Or yours? I do it to keep him safe. To keep you both safe.”

Zhylaw never went anywhere without his commanders, I remember. Often they accompanied him right to the doors of the sanctum. And Vaako would not understand the Beast’s efforts with the legionnaires. He understands only the chain of command, not the bonds of loyalty and friendship that the Beast has built all the way to the bottom of that chain.

“We both appreciate it.”

“Then stop this foolishness. How can I keep you both safe surrounded by every legionnaire? Exposed out in that wilderness?”

Eden is hardly a wilderness. “Would it help if I sat Riddick and the commanders at a separate table? The same way as in the dining hall?”

Vaako twitches his head. “That would help.”

“Is there anything else I can do?”

“He should be armed.”

“He always is.”

“So are you.” He nods at Hannelore, still in my hand. “I didn’t know you were so strong.” He works his jaw a little.

Gardening is not a job for the weak. It looks gentle and mild, but is more often back-breaking. “I’m sorry for hitting you. That was uncalled for.”

He snorts. “It was quite called for. I should not have called you . . . that.”

“No, you shouldn’t. Be aware that Riddick intends for Hardy to—“ I don’t know what to call it. “Be our third permanently. If that makes me a whore.” I shrug. “I am, always and forever, what Riddick has made me.”

Vaako watches me for a long moment. Then he swallows. “Do you . . . welcome a third?”

“He is not unwelcome. But I would not have invited him of my own accord.”

“The Lord Marshal has always been so possessive. It has caused a great deal of surprise, and comment, that he has let the Furyan get so close to you.”

How delightful to know that, once again, I am the subject of the wagging tongues. “Riddick’s plans are his own, as you no doubt know well. And whatever else he may be, he is also Furyan. Perhaps it is just their way. Their records do not tell us that, since they did not practice marriage except at the highest caste. But they lived in large family groups, that I know.”

“With more than one man sharing a woman?”

I shrug. I have found no records of such unions, but only the royal family’s unions were recorded. The Furyans also recorded births and deaths. I have been able to identify Riddick’s parents, but I do not know what their relationship was, only that they were both part of the same clan. 

“It is not nature’s way,” Vaako observes.

“Who is to say what is nature’s way? One man, one woman? One man, many women? That is the way of lions. And Lords Marshal. Is it the way of all men? Of Furyans? We must each find our own way. Riddick has mapped his, and it includes Hardy. Whether I would have it so, whether I welcome it, whether I find them both so maddeningly opaque it drives me to distraction, none of these things matter. I have welded my future to his. His path is my path, and I go wherever it leads.”

He chuckles. “I find him maddeningly opaque at times, too.”

“Just think,” I say, raising my eyebrows at him. “I have to deal with two of them.”

Vaako laughs. “I do not envy you.”

“No one should.” I sigh. “That is the truth behind this party. I am trying to make Hardy feel welcomed. Valued.”

“You think he doesn’t?”

“Maddeningly opaque, as I said. I do not know how he feels. Only that he runs away at the most inopportune moments.”

“Ah,” Vaako says. “I see. I thought . . . perhaps, it had another purpose.”

“What deviousness do you suspect me of now?”

“I thought you wanted everyone to admire your handiwork.”

Men. “I have no such hubris. I am proud of Eden, of course, but it is hardly my handiwork. I have barely been able to walk in it, much less do any of the planting.”

“I know. You have turned some of our best soldiers into field-hands.”

Yet another sin for him to lay at my feet. “Those field-hands are helping to feed all of Zibon. Is there anything I do of which you approve?”

Vaako smiles broadly. “Very little. Although I approve of you sleeping all day.”

“So you see less of me.”

“As you say.” His smile quirks at the edges and I am reminded that Vaako has a sense of humor, when he chooses to. “Actually, it made a substantial improvement in the Lord Marshal’s mood. I am sorry to hear that it has not been an enduring improvement.”

I rub my fingers over my forehead. “It is the Furyan woman, Shirah, who disturbs his sleep. I thought I had found a way to counter her, but it is too slow, too uncertain.”

“I hear she sleeps all day and all night now.”

“She does?” I knew the hormone might make her lethargic. I did not know it would make her comatose.

“What else has she to do?”

She could read, as the Beast did in his captivity, but I sense that Shirah is not the sort to divert herself. “Nothing, I suppose.”

“Liaden,” Vaako reaches out and covers my hand where I still grip Hannelore. He squeezes my fingers around the knife’s hilt. “You know the way to counter her, swift and sure.”

“I do, but I won’t. I will find another way.”

“Killing is what Necromongers know best.” 

“It is not all we know.”

Vaako nods approvingly. “The Lord Marshal says you are one of the best strategists he has ever known. I did not understand until the day we played Quadrangle—”

While I appreciate his back-handed compliment, it does nothing to help me. “This is not a game of Quadrangle. Riddick suffers, all the Furyans suffer, and nothing I do relieves their suffering.”

“Perhaps you take too much on yourself.” Vaako pats me awkwardly on the shoulder. “As with this.” He nods at my plans, still displayed on the worktop. “I do not approve of this party, but I will not object any longer. If there is something you need me to do, you need only ask.”

“Thank you, Vaako.”

He nods at me before taking his leave.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: this chapter contains explicit descriptions of non-consensual sex. If you as a reader find depictions of non-consensual sex upsetting, please do not read this chapter.

After Vaako departs, I pick up my stylus and tap it on my worktop. There are limited options for places to move the taruut field within the shock wall. My helpers have surpassed themselves and planted my entire design. Little free space remains. While I am contemplating locations, the lens above my worktable flashes.

Grateful for the diversion from my dilemma, I tap the lens.

Hardy’s face appears. My heart catches, stutters. He is wearing two day’s growth of beard and there is a flaking, dark brown rime along his hairline. He has forgotten how to wash again, I see, but I don’t care. I am so happy to see his dirty face that I feel tears well in my eyes.

“Guess I fucked up,” he says without preamble. “Got out here and found a huge trail. Must be a dozen adults and twice as many juveniles. They’re moving fast, not even finishing their kills. I wanted to see if something was driving them, or drawing them. So we’ve been tracking them—”

He breaks off and glances over his shoulder. Says something that I do not hear. He looks back into the lens. “Wait a minute, okay?”

The lens fuzzes as he passes his hand over it, then clears. The view has changed. It is Hardy’s face again, but he sits outside, in dappled sunlight, with a tree-trunk at his back. His unruly hair is speckled with water and a few drops dot the lens, breaking the sunlight into prisms. He shifts, trying to get comfortable and the view lifts so I can see some of the deep green forest behind him. He speaks into the lens again. “Sorry, I had to wait until Leto fell asleep. He lets me listen when he talks to Vennie so I probably shouldn’t feel like I’ve got to hide this, but, you know, I figure what’s between us is private.”

Exactly how I feel. I smile into the lens.

He sighs and looks off into the distance for a moment, then back at the lens. “I said I wasn’t any good at sharing. I said I’d try for you but I know I’ve fucked up. You’ll be angry at me again when I get back and I don’t have anything for you this time. Maybe I can find something. There are some nice flowers out here, but I think you’ve got them in your garden already.” He looks around as though trying to locate a peace-offering. I shake my head at the lens even though I know he recorded this hours ago and cannot see me. “Thing is, I don’t want you to be mad at me. Not ever. I’m not as smart as you, but I’m smart enough to know where things are going, between you and me. I want that, you know. More than I’ve ever wanted anything. But I don’t know if I can. I know you said you’d wait, but I don’t know if you really will. Not if I keep fucking up. No one has before.”

He looks away into the distance again, then rubs his fingers over the lens. It fuzzes and I reach over to tap the lens to record a response. Before I can touch the lens, his face appears again. It is darker in the forest now, closer to evening and I wonder if he only recorded this a few moments before he sent it. 

Then I see that his eyes are red-rimmed and his hair stands up in spikes as though he’s been tugging at it. “Thing is. Thing is,” he repeats, forcing out the words through his teeth. “I know you say I’ve got a future with you. But if I can’t do . . . what you want me to . . . I don’t know. You might figure it’s not worth the wait. I’m not, you know, worth the trouble. It’s not you, Liaden. I want you to know it’s not you. I want you, so much. I’m going crazy out here without you and the nightmares have started again and I know that’s ‘cause I’m not with you.”

Oh, no. Oh, my poor, poor man.

“But I don’t know if I can do it. I know I said it would be easier next time and it will but I don’t know if I can do what you want. Everything, you know, like it should be. And it’s not you. It’s not you. I should tell you . . . you should know why. Maybe you already know. I figure Riddick knows. He might have told you. But he doesn’t tell you everything. He’s hiding what happened to him, I think. I'm not sure. Maybe he doesn’t want it to hurt you, like he said. I don’t want what happened to me to hurt you. I don’t want you crying over it like you did, but I don’t want you thinking this is your fault, that you done something wrong. You haven’t. You’ve done everything right. It’s me.”

He takes a deep, shuddering breath and runs his hand through his hair again, spiking it wildly.

“They kept me in a room,” he says. He glances right and left as though seeking escape and my heart tears to see him reliving his captivity. “It was after . . . I don’t even know where to start to tell you this . . . they gave me water but no food. Not for days. I was so hungry I couldn’t think of anything else. It was like my gut was eating me from the inside out. I kept banging on the walls. Screaming for them to let me out. Then the door opened and I thought I could escape, so I ran but there was just this corridor and a chair at the end of it. That chair.” He shudders. “That fucking chair. I still see it every time I shut my eyes. This voice told me to get in the chair and strap myself in and if I did, there’d be food.”

He closes his eyes for a moment and I pray to Xia that he’s not looking at the chair behind his eyelids. “Took them three days to break me. I wouldn’t get in the chair. I could see what it was. See the tube and the pump. I knew what they wanted from me. I tried to get back into the room where they’d be keeping me. There was water in there. But they’d sealed the door. Two days without water and I thought my head was going to implode. I kept breaking the chair, tearing it apart with my hands, but they’d just gas me and repair it while I was out. I tried to eat the tube. Broke my tooth on it. They replaced it. I tried everything, everything, and nothing worked and finally I got in the chair.”

He’s silent for a moment and I know he’s reliving his failure. I feel a tear run cold down my cheek. I brush it away. If he can tell me without crying, I can listen as bravely.

“It didn’t take long, that first time. They gave me food and water after, like they’d said. Twice a day, every day. I lost count of the days. You called yourself a heifer ‘cause we wanted to look at you, but I was their bull, prize fucking bull.” He rubs his hand over his mouth. “Tube hurt. It’s not like, you know, a woman. Took me longer and longer each time. Some days, I’d be in the chair for hours. Screaming. Trying to . . . you know. They gave me drugs but they didn’t work. Fucked up the motility or something. They brought in women. They were afraid of me, so I was chained down. Like a dog.”

I squeeze my own eyes closed and feel the tears course down my cheeks. I am not as brave as he after all.

“I couldn’t do it with them. No matter what they did to me. They whipped me. Starved me again. Beat the fuck out of me. Didn’t matter. The tube fucked me up too much. I couldn’t do it without the tube. Couldn’t get off with the tube. Couldn’t do it.”

He rubs his eyes, and I know he has not told me this without crying. “What if . . . what if I can’t do it? What you did, in the bath, that’s the first time I’ve done it with a person, you know, touching me, since that chair. I don’t even like to touch myself down there. Meeting you, being around you, I’ve done it more in the last couple of weeks than I have in all the years since they let me go. I want it more than I ever have. I feel things more there than I ever did since the last time I stuck it in that fucking tube. But what if I can’t do it? I know you won’t wait for me, Liaden. I can’t ask you to. You won’t. No one has.” 

He put his palm across the lens. It fuzzes to gray and does not start again.

I tap my lens and record a response. I do not wipe my face first. I want him to see my tears. My response is short. I will tell him what his words have meant to me when we are together, alone, and can soothe each other’s pain. 

“I will wait for you forever. Please come back to me.”

 

I leave botanics at midnight and join the Beast in the dining hall. He sits with some of the dedicated night owls. Inker. Elkie. The Elemental, who never seems to sleep. I join them quietly and make myself a cup of calming tea. I am drained from my confrontation with Vaako, and Hardy’s revelations. As I sip my tea, I feel the Beast ruffle through my mind. He grunts, high then low, and I am not sure of what he approves and disapproves.

“Want me to cut some respect into Vaako?”

I chuckle at the mental image his words evoke. “No.”

“Tell me, you change your mind. Think he’d look good with a big ‘L’ cut into his forehead.”

“You’d ruin his glower.”

“I think he needs some party jobs.”

I shake my head at him with a grin. “That’s cruel.”

The Beast’s brows draw together. “No, what was done to Hardy’s fuckin’ cruel. I know hearin’ that hurt you. Gotta hope it’ll help him to tell you.”

I nod. “When he returns, could you say something to him? Something I don’t think he will hear from me?”

“Sure.”

“It doesn’t matter if he never can. If all he ever wants to do is hold my hand, I am content. I need nothing more from him.”

The Beast brows knit again. “I’m not content with that.”

I elbow him in the ribs. “This isn’t about you. Or me. It’s about him, and what he is able to give.”

“Hope he can give more than that.”

“You were the one who told me not to push him.”

“Yeah, cause I figured he’d get there in his own time. If it looks like he can’t, you gonna give him a helpin' hand?”

“A helping hand that might remind him of that tube?”

The Beast flinches.

“I will not ask him for more than he can give. Please tell him that.”

The Beast grimaces. “Yeah, okay. Still hope he can give more than that.”

As do I.

 

Breakfast is boisterous. The news of the party has spread quickly and many come to where the Beast and I sit in the midst of his commanders and volunteer their specific skills. They also come, I sense, to make sure they are invited. The Beast greets each one, calls them by name, and ensures that they know they are welcome. 

“We may need a bigger pavilion,” I remark after what must be the hundredth legionnaire offers to help set up tables.

“And a couple more Antyons,” the Beast says. “Hope Hardy brings some fresh ones.”

“I didn’t tell him about the party. Maybe I should send him another message?” I have checked my lens every few hours since I sent the message, in case he sends something back, but so far, he has been silent.

The Beast shakes his head. “Gvenne will have told Leto. Don’t chase Hardy. Let him chase you.”

I nod, immediately seeing the wisdom of this. Furyan men, they need the chase, in all aspects of their lives. 

We linger at breakfast until Kreon is high in the sky. Before we retire, I stand at our lens, looking out of the beach, wondering where Hardy is. Is he sleeping now? Has his hunt been successful? Has he found what was driving, or drawing, the Antyon pride? 

The Beast joins me, wraps his arms around me and nuzzles my neck, drawing my scent deep into his lungs. “He’ll be fine.”

“I’m sure he will.” I have no fears for him on the hunt. He is swift and strong, and although even the fastest, strongest hunter may be brought low, I do not fear for him. “After our daughter is born, I’d like to hunt again.”

“Yeah? We got plenty of hunters already.”

“I know, but I would like to hunt again. I’d like to go hunting with him, if he’ll allow it.”

“’Long as all you hunt as Antyons. Daixian huntin’ll make you real unpopular, real quick.”

“Not if I hunt Shirah.”

The Beast chuckles. “That’s true. C’mon, wife, bed.”

He takes my hand and leads me to our bed, where we make slow, lazy love in the red-gold light of morning, before falling asleep in each other’s arms.

 

I wake to movement and reach out sleepily for the Beast, thinking to soothe him if he is in the grip of another nightmare. My fingertips brush sweat-soaked flesh. He feels so hot to the touch, like touching live coals. A rush of cool air surprises me, as the sheets and my nightgown are pulled away. My nightgown pulls painfully taut under my belly and I reach down to free it. The Beast rolls me onto my front, trapping my arm under me. He yanks my hips into the air. I protest the position, with my arm trapped, my bare bottom exposed, but he doesn’t seem to hear me.

He shoves his knee between my calves, spreading my legs. Then he sinks his hand into my hair, pushes my head down into the pillows and shoves himself into me.

I start forward in shock, scrabbling at the headboard. He has not made any room for himself inside me, and there is not enough wetness from our earlier lovemaking to ease his entrance. My body resists him, but he batters at me, forcing himself inside. Pain spears through me with each rough thrust.

I struggle against him, against his hard grip on my hips, against the invasion of his phallus. He takes a firmer grip in my hair and grinds my face in the pillows. I gasp, inhaling hair. He holds me down, ramming himself into me while he suffocates me in the pillows and the shroud of my own hair.

Flailing, I finally get my arm out from under me, my hands against the headboard and shove up from the bed as hard as I can. His great strength works against me, and I collapse onto one elbow as pain shoots through my belly. But I manage to get my face turned to one side.

I take a great, gasping breath that burns its way down through my throat into my lungs. It echoes the burning pain inside me. When I release the breath it is with a scream.

“Riddick!”

He freezes.

The pain recedes suddenly. He releases my hair and withdraws from me. Stunned by what has happened, by the cessation of pain, I slump onto the bed.

The bed creaks as his weight leaves it. I lift my head and follow his progress across the room to the great lens. He moves oddly, staggering. When he reaches the lens, he leans against it heavily.

I rise. Liquid trickles warm then cold down my thigh. I ache deep inside, but that pain is nothing compared to the pain in my heart. What in Xia’s name just happened?

Pulling my nightgown back down, I wad it between my thighs. I cross the floor towards him, taking each step carefully, ready to run if he turns on me suddenly. 

When I reach him, I realize I’m in no danger. Horror and disgust and shame and need roil around him like a black cloud. He won’t let me see his thoughts, but his emotions are so strong that they leak through even his titanium shields.

I touch his back and he shudders.

“My love?” I ask in a whisper.

“Stay away from me,” he says hoarsely, each word wrenched from deep in his chest.

Oh no, no. I can’t let him shut me out. Whatever demon is driving him, I cannot let it come between us.

I stroke his back, his hips, ignoring the way he shudders at each touch, until I feel need rise above his other emotions. He breathes heavily, almost panting, without any of the usual control he exercises over his breathing. He has no control over the lust that rages through him, either. He wants release desperately, enough to force me for it, enough to kill for it. Only shame at what he’s done, and fear that he’ll lose me if he forces himself on me again, holds him in check.

I slide around him, trailing my fingers around his hip, and sink to my knees. His phallus stands away from his body, quivering slightly with each breath. I stroke my fingertips down over him, feeling the tackiness of my own blood. The idea of swallowing that blood when I take him in my mouth makes my gorge rise. But I can’t take him inside me again, and he needs release so very, very badly. Every cell, every molecule in my body responds to his desperation. Despite what he’s just done to me, I will give him what he needs.

Taking just his tip in my mouth, I lave him with my tongue. It is little different from kissing Hardy. No more offensive. There’s a salty copper taste that swirls down my throat, quickly drowned in his familiar musk. He groans, shudders. His hand sinks into my hair. I feel the tremors that run up his arm.

I cup in his hip in one hand, controlling his motion as he begins to rock slightly, in and out of my mouth. He spreads his legs and I reach between them to cradle his heavy sac in my palm. We find our rhythm, faster than usual, a quick thrust to the back of my throat and then just enough of a withdrawal to let me breathe and swallow before he thrusts again. His need rises with each thrust, and after only a few moments, he floods my mouth with his hot, salty fluid.

He withdraws immediately and presses my cheek against his thigh, stroking my hair. Under my cheek and hands, he shakes, small, continual tremors that have nothing to do with his climax. Sweet Xia, what is happening to him?

I stand slowly, pushing him away from the lens. “Come back to bed, my love.”

“Liaden—”

“Shh. Come to bed.”

I lead him back to our bed. Our bed, which has always been a place of shared delight and the deep comfort of sleeping in his arms. I cannot see it quite the same way now.

He settles into the bed, and for the first time, turns away from me. I cuddle against his back, tucking the covers around him and cradling him in the curve of my body until his breathing is deep and even.

I lie against him, but cannot sleep. Pain keeps me awake. Pain, and fear. I feel a deep ache, not the sharper, stabbing pains Tomoetu warned would signal a miscarriage. But what if the Beast’s invasion has damaged more than I can feel? Finally, when I am sure that he sleeps deeply, I rise.

My nightgown is glued between my thighs. I leave it there until I reach my wardrobe and pull a small device out of a compartment in my dressing table. I have not used the menstrycler since the Beast first claimed me. There has been no need.

I close my eyes against the pain, not inside me, but in my heart. What will I see when I pull away the nightgown? Please, Xia, have mercy . . . 

Steeling myself, I pull away the nightgown and quickly fit the menstrycler between my legs. Its soft suction makes me wince. Its weight adds to the ache that already flares within me with each movement. I swallow hard. It is bearable, and I cannot walk the hallways of Zibon bleeding like a stuck Antyon.

A fresh gown hides the bloodstains on my thighs, the bruises on my hip where his fingers dug into me. I will clean and treat them later. First, I have to know.

As stealthily as I can, I creep back through the sanctum. I check briefly on the Beast, who sleeps peacefully. No trace of what he’s done shows on his face or body. I grit my teeth and move on.

Two levels and four corridors. It is late afternoon and the hallways of Zibon are busy. Many greet me. I am glad I took the time to clean myself up. It is a short walk, but pain jabs me with each step, and were it not for the menstrycler, I’d be sure my innards were about to drop onto the tiled floor. Whenever the halls are empty, I grip the cool walls to keep myself upright. When they’re not, I move slowly, greeting everyone with as much of a smile as I can manage.

Cays is in the medical center. Mercifully, she is alone. I do not think I could face Tomoetu’s knowing stare.

“Li?” She blinks at me in surprise, takes in the expression on my face and quickly guides me to an examination couch and pulls a screen around us for privacy. “Lie down. What happened?”

I sink gratefully onto the couch and guide her hand to my belly. “The baby?” I bite my lip after the question escapes me. What if I have waited too long? 

“The baby’s fine. What . . . what in the name of Damalis? Your cervix is detached. What happened?”

“Can you heal me?”

“Yes, just relax.” She puts a cool hand to my forehead. The other hovers over my pelvis. Immediately, the ache inside me eases, and then disappears altogether. As if it never was.

I breathe deeply with relief.

Cays closes her eyes and sways a little as she takes my injury. The wet spatter of fluid on the tiled floor punctuates our shared breathing. Watching her bleed for me, I bite my lip again and will away the hot prickle that rises behind my eyes.

Cays blinks and focuses on me. “How does that feel?”

“Better, thank you.” I begin to sit up, but she pushes me back.

“I want the Master to have a look at you.”

I shake my head quickly. I cannot face those knowing eyes. “No. Thank you for what you’ve done, but no one else can know. Not even Tomoetu.”

“Wha—?” Her mouth works as she trails off in shock.

“And we need never speak of it again.” I push away her restraining hand and rise.

“Li—”

I shake my head, forestalling whatever she’s about to say. “Thank you for your assistance.”

“Li!”

I regard her coolly. “Healer.”

My use of her title draws her up short. She presses her fingers to her mouth and shakes her head. “I don’t understand,” she says.

“You don’t need to. Thank you again for the healing.”

Leaving her standing in a puddle of blood, I make my way out the door.

 

The Beast is gone when I return to the sanctum and I am quietly grateful. I don’t know what to say to him. What to think. Instead, I go about removing all signs of his assault. First my ruined nightgown, which I burn. Then I wash carefully, everywhere, removing every trace of what he has done to me. Neither Furyan appears for their bath. I should be upset by their absence, but I cannot muster any feeling, one way or the other. I am numb and dazed.

Hannelore never leaves my hand.

When I return to the sanctum from the bath, the bed is in disarray. The pillows and fur cover lie on the floor. The sheets are missing. The exposed mattress bears a small, red-brown stain. I stare at it for a long time, knowing what it is. Finally, I pull the mattress off the bed, flip it over and wrestle it back between the headboard and posters. I leave Nazya to dress it with fresh sheets and see to my own toilette. I dress in a simple gardening shift, braid my hair and coil it atop my head. I wear boots, so that Hannelore can accompany me in her calf sheath. A pair of Deathshead Pins in my hair. The Rift clasp on a chain around my throat. It lies cold against my Collar, but I find both its weight and coldness welcome. It is a reminder that I am strong; I have weapons only I can wield. I am not a victim, no matter what has been done to me.

Finally, I collect Ctyren and the Bird, and make my way down into my garden. It is empty in the transition between day and evening. The soil is already bedewed from the garden’s watering program, and accepts my tears without question, without complaint. The familiar rhythm of pruning and weeding finally soothes me. As the artificial light grows long and golden in the hour before sunset, I leave the garden and wind my way up through Zibon to my solarium. I take the stairs, feeling the stretch of the muscles in my legs and belly. I am healed, but I still feel the ghost of that deep ache, that deep mysterious hurt that the Beast visited on me. 

I have not invited anyone to tea today, so I am surprised to find the doors to my solarium open, and a group of women already gathered within.

My eyes flit from face to face. Avalyn. Zetany. Gvenne. Sanjula. Tirea. And Cays.

Of course.

I take a deep breath and glare at the Healer. “Was I unclear?”

Avalyn sets her teacup down with a clatter and stands. “You weren’t going to keep this from us.”

I turn to go. I have nothing to say to them, and no desire to hear whatever recriminations they wish to heap on me. What passes between the Beast and me is _private_. I will not answer to anyone for it. And I will not let anyone question him.

A soft hand stops me. “Mistress.” Nazya’s voice. I didn’t even see her in the room. Where does she hide? “Mistress, you haven’t eaten anything. For the baby’s sake, please, have something to eat.”

My grumbling stomach agrees with her, but I can get something from the galley on my way out into Eden. I need not endure their questions. 

I need not endure anything from anyone at the moment.

Cays peers around my other side. “Li, please eat. If you want us to leave, we will. Just don’t . . . I only told them because I was scared for you. Please, don’t run away.”

“I’m not running away,” I snap at her. “I have nothing to say.”

Gvenne reaches around Cays, takes my hand and tugs me down on the chaise next to her. She hands me a cup of tea. “I know it’s no good, but please, drink something. Eat something.” 

She offers me one of Chef’s soft, white rolls. My favorite food at the moment. Nazya must have gotten them for me. I thank her with a flick of my fingers before I take the roll, pluck a piece off between my fingers and take a bite.

Avalyn sits on my other side. She brushes a strand of hair that’s come loose from my braid back behind my ear. Peers into my face. “Please tell us what happened.”

“Shirah happened.” That is the only thing I am certain of. I do not understand what the Beast was seeing or feeling or smelling when he took me, forced me, like that. But I know that this was yet another battle in the war between myself and Shirah. 

A battle she has won.

“What does Shirah have to do with Lord Riddick nearly tearing you in half?” Cays asks.

I glance at Zetty, who is crying silently, gripping her teacup in shaking hands. How could they involve her in this? The girl barely knows what intercourse _is_. “Zetty, dearest, you don’t need to hear any of this. Please go. Take Ctyren to the beach—”

Zetany shakes her head. “You can’t shut me out. Not out of this.”

“I’m not trying to shut you out, just spare you things you need not hear.” I suddenly understand what Hardy was trying to do, that night in my garden. And I recall with clarity how maddening it was to be excluded. “Forgive me. Stay if you wish, dearest. We’re not discussing what happened anyway.”

Avalyn protests with a wordless exclamation. Tirea, sitting across from me, folding and refolding her hands in her lap, says, “Li, we’re not trying to invade your privacy, just understand what happened and whether we can help.”

I look at the seven pairs of anxious eyes. “I don’t know what happened, and I would very much like your help, but I don’t know what you can do. What any of us can do.”

“How can you not know what happened?” Avalyn protests.

“I know the mechanics of it,” I say through clenched teeth. “Which we are not discussing. I know the how of it. Shirah invades their dreams. All of the Furyans, she visits her fears on them in the form of nightmares. What I don’t know is the why of it. All I can think is that she’s gaining control over them. Taking more of their minds than dreams. More of Riddick’s mind.”

“No,” Avalyn breathes.

“Avvy, has Cawl—?”

“He won’t touch me. He hasn’t for two days. Is this why? Because she’s torturing him in his dreams? Taking over his mind?”

“Yes.”

“We have to stop this!”

“I agree. I’ve tried a number of things. Gvenne’s been assisting me. I tried to trigger her menses early. She only has this power when she’s fertile.”

“Is this the selius clay?” Cays asks. At my nod, she says, “I’d expect that to take three or four days to work.”

“Then we have two more days to endure.”

“You might not survive two more days,” Cays says grimly.

I have no answer to that. I know the wound the Beast inflicted on me was grave. I know I could not stop him from inflicting another, if he forced me again. If I can bring myself to lie with him again.

I shy away from that notion quickly. 

We all look up at a sudden pounding on the door. Nazya rises and crosses to answer it. I can see irritation rise off her like a heat shimmer. She slides the door open and levels her laser glare on the man who stands on the other side.

Caden is immune to that glare. He bends into my Handmaiden and whispers something to her. She half-turns and her hand flickers.

 _Lord Marshal in danger_ , she signals.

I put my cup and half-finished bun down. Draw Hannelore from her sheathe on my calf and swing my legs over the back of the chaise.

“Where?”

“Come, Lady.” Caden beckons with two fingers and when I rise off the chaise and accelerate into a run, he runs next to me, swift despite his armor and war axe, pointing the way through Zibon’s corridors to the command center.


	26. Chapter 26

The commander center doors snick out of my way, and we run into an almost solid wall of bodies. I push against them but they are large, heavy, male and armored. It is Caden who clears a path for me, bellowing, “Let Lady Liaden through!”

One of the armored bodies shifts to the side and I squeeze through, cursing the protuberance of my belly, which catches on the hard edges of armor. I stumble through the line of bodies, and come face-to-barrel with Elkie’s Smitty Ninety-Two.

She stands in the middle of the command center, covering the line of commanders and legionnaires blocking the door. She’s down on one knee, hands cupping the gun in a stance she can hold without strain. Under her knee is a fold of white cloth. I can see the bloodstains on it even from several meters away. 

Behind her, the Beast and Hardy grapple, hands locked around each other’s throats. As I watch, Hardy cracks his forehead into the Beast’s. The Beast staggers back, blood sluicing down his nose. It’s not the only place he bleeds from. The left side of his torso is a carmine wash. I cannot see from where he bleeds, only that there is a great deal of it. Although he must be half-blinded by blood and pain, he still hammers a kick at Hardy’s stomach. Hardy takes the kick with a grunt but immediately retaliates, sweeping the Beast’s leg, so he tumbles to the ground. The silent Furyan pikes up and is on top of the Beast in an instant, locking his hands around the Beast’s throat again.

I take two strides forward, until I’m within a meter of Elkie, who steadily aims at my chest. She’s shaking. Her eyes are red. But she continues to hold her gun on me.

“Stand aside, Elkie.”

She shakes her head.

“Gentlemen,” I say loudly enough for the battling Furyans to hear me. “That’s enough.”

They ignore me and continue their silent battle.

“Gentlemen! That’s enough!”

The Beast smashes his fist into the side of Hardy’s head. The other Furyan grunts but never lets up his choke-hold.

I take Hannelore and hold her sharp edge to my own throat. “I will not,” I enunciate very clearly. “Be fought over like a bone. That. Is. ENOUGH.”

The command center rings with my last word and the two combatants stop throttling each other long enough to glance in my direction.

I press Hannelore’s keen edge into the soft flesh of my throat. She knows my throat well now and takes only a tiny sip. Enough that a single bead of blood runs down my neck and slips over my Collar, to soak into the neckline of my gardening shift.

Elkie’s aim finally wavers. “Liaden.”

“Get out of my way.”

She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, then opens them and shakes her head.

I reach out and grab the barrel of her gun. Bring it back to aim at my chest. “Shoot me then.”

“Liaden—”

“Shoot me! Or get out of my way!”

“Stay right there, Elkie,” the Beast growls.

 _He_ asked her to cover the fight?! I try to see his eyes, but he’s hidden under Hardy’s heaving back. I flex my fingers on Hannelore’s handle and push her edge deeper into my flesh.

“She’s bleeding!” Elkie snarls over her shoulder.

Hardy’s head comes up sharply. His mouth is smeared with blood. He shakes his head and a piece of torn flesh arcs across the room to splat wetly on the floor. He rolls off the Beast, onto his back. He’s also covered in blood, and his left shoulder is visibly dislocated, but that doesn’t stop him from scrambling to his feet, his dark eyes fixed on the blade at my throat.

“Don’t.” He holds a bloody hand out to me. “Liaden, don’t.”

The Beast, missing a huge chunk of flesh from the underside of his jaw, from which more blood pours, rolls to his side. “Vaako,” he croaks.

I turn my head and pin the commander with a glare. “Take one step and I’ll cut my throat before you take another.”

Vaako, perhaps convinced of my resolve after our recent meeting, nods and does not move.

“Get Cays,” I tell him. “Right now.”

“I’m here, Li! I’m here. Oh, Damalis.” She pushes through the line of armored men and hurries to my side.

“Heal the Lord Marshal,” I say.

The Beast shakes his head.

“Li?” Cays asks hesitantly, a great deal more to the question than just my name.

“The Lord Marshal is not in his right mind today,” I say. “I am the Lord Marshal’s wife. I give you authority to heal him.”

“Yes, Lady Marshal,” Cays says immediately. She steps cautiously around Elkie and to the Beast’s side. He tries to push her away, but she grasps his forearm and blood blossoms through her green and silver gown.

“Liaden,” Hardy says softly.

I look at him. He attacked my lord. Can I still adore him when he’s betrayed us? “Welcome back,” I say, although there is no welcome in my voice. “I understand why you assaulted the Lord Marshal.” I nod at the bloodied sheet on the floor, which tells its own tale. “But treachery cannot be tolerated. You can leave Zibon now, forever, or you can join Shirah in her prison to wait whatever sentence the Lord Marshal imposes on you. Those are your choices.”

I see his heart break. It’s there, in his eyes, as he looks at me, the Beast’s blood still staining his teeth. He shudders. “Prison,” he whispers.

“He’s pardoned,” the Beast growls. “Nothing happens to him. He had good cause. Liaden, fuck it, I want to talk to you.”

I have a great deal to say to him. Very little of which he is likely to want to hear. None of it, however, is a fit subject for the ears of those who mill around us. “Very well,” I say. “It’s time for your bath, of which you have substantial need. When the Healer is finished with you, you know where to find me.”

I release Elkie’s gun, lower Hannelore, turn on my heel and walk out, pushing through the line of soldiers.

Avalyn touches my arm as I pass her but I shake my head. I am too angry to speak to her now. To anyone.

If Hardy knew me better, he would understand and not chase after me. But he doesn’t know, and he does chase me, pushing through the legionnaires with a growl, his footsteps nearly silent on the corridor’s floor. But my senses are heightened by rage and I hear him, and turn, holding Hannelore out in front of me, her edge still bright with my blood.

My knife draws him up short. He puts his hand out to me again. It is stained with the Beast’s blood. I should kill him for that alone.

“Liaden,” he whispers, his voice choked. “I came back to you.”

I nod. Say nothing. 

“I came back, I came to find you. The bed, your blood was everywhere. I looked for you but no one knew where you were. I thought he’d killed you.”

“I’m very much alive,” I say. “You, on the other hand, are only alive because of the Lord Marshal’s mercy.”

“His mercy? What mercy? Did he show you any fucking mercy? Did you show me any? You were going to put me back in a cage! For what? For that? For him?! When you know—”

My hand, gripping Hannelore’s hilt so tightly the metal should scream, shakes. “I know you attacked the Lord Marshal.”

“He forced you! He admitted it!”

“What happens between the Lord Marshal and his wife does not concern you. It is not for you to avenge me!”

“Don’t concern me?” He shakes his head, his eyes wide and glittering with tears. “How don’t it concern me? You’re the only thing that concerns me. Am I nothing more than a dog to you?”

My own heart shatters. It tears out of me in a long scream. I fall to my knees, clutching my belly. “How could you?” I cry. “How could you hurt him?”

Hardy follows me down, crawls across the corridor floor to me. I wave Hannelore at him, although I am too blinded by tears to use her. “How does it feel to have someone you trust and love draw their blade against you? How does it feel?”

“I don’t know,” Hardy whispers. He takes Hannelore from me gently. Slides his arms around me and draws me to him. “I’ve only ever loved you.”

Sweet Xia, how can I stand this? I wrap my arms around his neck. Sob into his skin. “Where, where have you been?”

“Hunting.” He pulls me up against his chest, gets his arm under my legs and with a grunt of pain, rises to his feet. “Never leave you again.”

I let my tears soak into the filth caking his skin. “I won’t cage you. Not ever. I want to come hunting with you. Swear you’ll let me. Swear you’ll never hurt him again.”

“I swear.” He carries me back to the sanctum, into the bathing chamber, where he takes off my boots and shift before climbing into the bath with me still in his arms. He’s fully clothed, and the water will ruin his leather vest and pants, but he doesn’t seem to care. I press him against the rim of the bath, grip his shoulder between my hands, and shove the joint back into place. He grunts but I feel some of the tension drain out of him. 

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” I ask.

“Probably. I can’t feel it right now.” He adjusts me in his arms, curling me a little tighter against his body. He doesn’t run his hands over me, the way the Beast would. I know he is constrained by my nakedness, and the Beast’s absence. “Don’t ever look at me that way again. Like you hated me.”

“I could never hate you, but I can’t love you if you betray him.”

“I swore. You heard me.”

“Yes, I did.” I stroke the side of his face. My fingers come away red, so I reach down for a handful of water and lave the side of his face until I can see his golden-brown skin again. “You’re filthy.”

“No point in washing if I was just going to get dirty again. Besides, I had this to look forward to.”

I sit up in his lap, a move he protests with a high grunt. I unlace his sodden vest and help him out of it, careful of his shoulder, which must be very sore. There are several spectacular bruises rising on his chest, ribs and stomach, but I don’t see any wounds, which means all of the blood is the Beast’s.

“Did you take him by surprise?” I ask.

Hardy shakes his head. “Confronted him with the sheet. He said he’d forced you. Hurt you. He said it like it didn’t matter. Like he was reading it off one of your lenses. So I pulled that knife he gave me and went for his heart.”

I cannot believe it did not matter to him, although I can believe he was trying desperately not to show how much it did. “Which you will never do again, no matter what happens.”

Hardy squeezes his eyes closed. When he opens them, the pupils are pinpoints of light on a tide of pain. “I swore—”

“I heard you. I have to be able to believe you, Hardy.”

“Believe me.” He presses his forehead against mine. “I believe everything you ever told me.”

He does. He has endured the pain of letting me close, letting me in, because I promised him that he had a future with us, and that the pain would give way to pleasure. He has never doubted me, no matter how loudly his past must have railed against my every word. I have to grant him that same faith.

“Did you believe me when I said I’d wait for you forever?” I ask gently.

He nods. 

“Then believe me when I say this. I will wait for you forever. I will ask nothing from you that you cannot give. But if you hurt Riddick ever again, I will leave you without another word and never look back. Do you understand me?”

He raises a hand to my face. Cups my cheek and holds my eyes while he nods.

“Then that subject is done,” I say gently, ready to put it behind me. “We need not speak of it again. You came back to me. I’m very happy to have you home.”

“I stayed away too long. I won’t again.”

I try to smile. “Just long enough for me to plan you a welcome-home party.”

“Party?” His forehead furrows. “For me?”

“For you. Although if you show up looking like this, you may scare away all the guests.” I scoop up another handful of water and wash the blood-caked bristles around his mouth. Rub my thumb over his full lower lip. He gives me a hesitant smile, the first I have seen since his return, as beautiful as the sunset. I lean in close and let my breath feather over his lips, but do not touch my mouth to his. I let him claim the kiss, which he does. Still soft, still achingly gentle, but he opens his mouth immediately and lets me taste him, a taste thick with the hot copper of the Beast’s blood. I lave his tongue with mine, taking that blood for my own, as all parts of the Beast should belong to me.

He turns his head to fit our mouths together more tightly and the bristles around his mouth scrape my cheek and chin. I laugh a little at the sensation and break the kiss. “You have not shaved, either.”

He smiles at me, without hesitation, an open, wanting, heartbreaking smile. “Don’t trust anyone but you near my throat with a razor. Not even me.” 

I disentangle myself slowly, rise off his lap and climb out of the tub to gather the bathing and shaving implements. As I do, I become aware of the Beast, standing in the shadows of the doorway. His eyes, silver spotlights in the gloom, track me.

“Your bath awaits,” I say. I still feel the simmer of rage in my heart, but it has been blanketed by Hardy’s gentleness. I can extend some of that comfort to the Beast, who must be hurting as much as I am.

The Beast shakes his head.

“If you let someone else bathe you, I will be even more exceptionally angry than I am already.”

“Liaden—”

I reach up, pluck one of my pins from my hair and throw it at him. It is a good throw, hard and perfectly aimed. It hits the doorway a handsbreadth from his head, bounces off the metal arch and clatters to the floor. He flinches, a tremor locking every muscle for a moment, before he slumps against the arch and continues to stare at me.

“Need you another demonstration of my anger and resolve?” I ask.

He watches me for several heartbeats. Finally, he says, “No.”

“Then, please, get in the bath, my lord.” I turn on my heel away from him, to the rack where I keep the bathing supplies. I turn my back as though I do not care what choice he makes, although I care very, very much. The hideous tension tightening my chest eases when I hear a soft splash.

“Nice bruises,” the Beast grunts at Hardy.

“Nice scars,” Hardy rejoins.

The men say nothing more of their battle, and I sense that is the end of it for them.

They should pray to be so lucky that it is the last they hear of it from me.

I return to the bath with the tray of bathing and shaving implements. Lay them on the tub’s rim with several towels. The two men have moved to their usual positions on opposite sides of the tub. When I’ve bathed them together in the past, they have not been careful about touching each other. Although there is rarely deliberate contact between them, they brush legs, bump feet. Not now. Now there is a careful distance, almost a dividing line, between them. They are not lying with their heads back, relaxed and waiting for me. They both sit upright, arms at their sides, with the reddened water to their chests, watching me.

They are both still wearing their pants.

I am wholly naked. How is it that I am wholly naked when they still have their pants on? Hardy still has his boots on, for Xia’s sake. What do they expect me to do now? Either they wait for me to take off their pants, which will be a trial with the leather wet, or they are too wary to be naked in each other’s presence.

Men.

I step back into the bath and tap the controls on the side so the water circulates more quickly. There will be a great deal of circulation needed before the water runs clear.

I begin the bath with familiar routine, lathering the sponges, kneeling between the two of them and beginning with their hands. The water has already done some of my work, loosening the dried blood so it disperses into a claret swirl under the touch of my sponge. I only have to scrub the webbing between Hardy’s fingers, caked black. Antyon gore, no doubt.

I wash their arms, necks and torsos without speaking, taking stock of their injuries. Hardy’s are limited to bruises. The Beast has a fresh, pink scar between his fifth and sixth ribs, where Hardy did, indeed, go for his heart. Either he managed to twist away, or Hardy’s own heart was not in the blow. There’s another scar under his chin, which will make shaving him a delicate affair, but I always do that last, when the men are at their most relaxed and the damp heat has softened their beards.

Judging by the tense postures of both men, it may take a long time to reach that point today.

As I’m sitting back on my heels, rinsing out the sponges, and contemplating whether I should try to remove their trousers or ask them to remove them, the Beast says, “Don’t like it when you’re this quiet, Liaden.”

“Doesn’t bode well,” Hardy adds.

“I thought I would give you a time of repose,” I say. “Would you gentlemen kindly remove your trousers?”

“Don’t like it when she calls us gentlemen, either,” Hardy mutters. He lifts his hips and begins shoving his pants down. He’s not wearing anything under the leather, which makes me smile. I quickly indulge my curiosity, and find nothing wanting, although his phallus is shaped differently from those I have seen before. I have a moment to wonder how it will feel, before I focus again on the Beast.

The Beast makes no move to remove his trousers. “Time of repose, huh? Before what? You lay into me? Rather just get it over.”

“Would you?” How unfortunate for him.

The Beast purses his mouth. “Say what you’ve got to say, Liaden.”

“It was you who wished to speak with me. Speak your peace.”

The Beast snorts. “Know what that is?” he says to Hardy. “That’s a trap. Anytime Liaden lets you talk first, shut the fuck up, hunker down and ride out the storm. ‘Cause it’s comin’.”

Oh, yes, it is.

“Very well, shall I go first?” I ask. When the Beast gives a resigned nod, I say, “Let us speak of what I saw when I walked into your command center.”

“Thought we’d settled this,” Hardy mutters.

“You and I have,” I say to him. “Riddick and I have more to say on the subject.”

“Sure you don’t want to start earlier in the day?” the Beast asks, but it is hardly a question. More a scouring of his soul.

“No, I don’t. I understand very well what happened earlier in the day. What I find more difficult to understand was what I saw when I walked into the command center. Shall I describe it for you?”

“No,” the Beast rumbles.

“No? Are you sure you recall it accurately, in the heat of battle? Because I am confident that I saw Elkie preventing any interference _by your command_. I am also confident that I saw you kick Hardy in a way that was designed to goad him without truly harming him—”

Hardy grunts. “It hurt, actually.”

“As I said, designed to goad you. A strategy that worked since you then tried to tear his throat out with your teeth.”

“I was there, Liaden. I remember all of it just fine. What’s your point?”

I lean over him. “You know what my point is. You told me I taught you the sacrifice play. Tell me that’s not what I saw when I walked into the command center.”

The Beast shrugs. “You know what you saw.”

Oh, yes, I do. “I will forgive you almost anything. Each of you. Both of you. I will forgive you letting your fear drive you away from me. I will forgive you letting Shirah invade your dreams and crafting you into a weapon against me. I will forgive you all of that. But I will not forgive you trying to kill yourself out of shame and guilt. That is what I saw in the command center. You were going to use this good man as a knife in your breast. You were goading him to kill you in atonement for what you did to me. Do you think that penance? Taking yourself away from me? No, that is what I will not forgive. And you will never, ever seek to do that again.”

The Beast looks at me for a long moment and the heat pouring off him should make the water boil. Then he closes his eyes and puts his head back against the bath’s padded rim. He stretches one leg out, into Hardy’s space. “Fuck, you get bossy when you’re pissed.”

I put a hand on his shoulder for balance as I lean over him. “Swear to me that you’ll never do that again.”

The Beast looks up at me, his eyes narrowed. “Or what?”

“There is no condition on this. I am asking because I love you and will never let you go. No matter what. That is my vow. Give me yours in return. Swear to me that you will never sacrifice yourself on the altar of your guilt again.”

His mouth twitches into something that is almost a smile. “What’re you gonna give me?”

“Give you? What more have I to give you? You have my love. My loyalty. My blood. What else could you possibly require?”

The Beast holds up a wet hand. “I get it, Liaden. I swear.”

I drop a kiss on his forehead. “Thank you.”

He jerks his head to the side. No, I will not let him fear intimacy with me. I frame his face in my hands and hold him for a longer kiss. Until I feel his mouth soften and open under mine. Until he kisses me back with heat and need and still a little fear, but it is less already. 

Some day, it will be gone.

When I break the kiss, he follows me with his quicksilver eyes. “Thought this might be somethin’ we couldn’t come back from.”

“There is nothing we can’t come back from. Not now. Not ever. We came back from you dismissing me as your concubine. We came back from Aimi’s death. We came back from you denying me the Threshold and bringing me to this strange, beautiful world. We came back from you making me open my heart to another man. We can come back from this.”

He holds his hand out to me and when I take it, pulls me down into his lap. He kicks Hardy, which the other Furyan takes for the invitation it is, and I feel him slide between the Beast’s legs to frame my back. Both men press close to me and I shift so I can put my arms around their necks. “I love you both,” I tell them. “I cannot bear you hurting each other, or yourselves.”

“You can bear us hurtin’ you, though,” the Beast murmurs.

I look into his eyes, so close I can see his pupil and the edge of brown iris underneath the shifting silver. “I’m stronger than both of you.”

He looks back at me just as earnestly. “Won’t ever happen again,” he promises.

“No, it won’t,” I agree. “Because we’re ending this tonight. I want you both to come to bed with me.” I feel Hardy begin shaking his head. I reach up and cup the back of his head and press him against me. “I will not ask for what you cannot give. You.” I look at the Beast. “I ask that you fall asleep with your mind open to me. Let me into your dreams—“

“Liaden—” he begins.

“Hear me out. Shirah uses your dreams against you—“

“More than that,” Hardy murmurs.

“I understand, but it started in your dreams. I see the edges of your dreams already, but you never let me deeper. Let me into your mind while you sleep and let me see what she is doing to you. I swear I will look for nothing else. If I can find a way to counter her, to block her from your dreams, her hold over you will end.”

I brace myself for the “no” I expect from both men, but it doesn’t come. They’re silent, considering.

“What if I hurt you again?” the Beast asks.

“Hardy will be there to protect me.”

“With my life,” Hardy says into my hair.

“That won’t be necessary.” There will be blood drawn tonight, but it will not be from either of these good men. It will be Shirah’s blood, or my blood, if I fail.

But I will not fail. I will find a way to win this war. I cannot allow her to strike at me again. I might not survive it.

 

The Beast’s acquiescence to my plan surprises me, but perhaps he sees the resolve in my mind and knows it is fruitless to oppose me. Or perhaps this is his penance. Lowering that barrier he has kept between us all the many months we have been together. I know he fears what I will see in his mind.

As do I.

The Beast insists that we dine as usual and I see the wisdom of his insistence. We need our people to see that the breach is healed and we are a united front. To quell the rumors that are, no doubt, swirling.

After I bathe the men, I dress carefully, in the pink gown the Beast favors. I consider wearing the witch’s robe he gave me, which feels so powerful and exposes so much, but I decide to save it for the party. The pink gown gives me color, which I need today. In my mirror, my cheeks are wan and my eyes shadowed. The pink gown adds much of what sleeplessness and sorrow have stolen from me. I add a little rouge to my lips, and cannot help but smile when I rejoin the men and find Hardy’s eyes riveted on my reddened mouth.

I take their hands and walk between them as we enter the dining hall. A ripple starts at the door and spreads throughout the hall, silencing conversation. Turning all eyes towards us.

It is Faz who rises first, but within seconds, every legionnaire in the hall is on their feet. Technicians and courtiers are slower to stand, but they also rise, one by one. The legionnaires salute. The others salute or bow their heads. The Beast acknowledges them as we move towards the table where his commanders stand, their right fists to their hearts, in the ancient show of honor the Beast has taught them.

But as we move through the hall, it is my eyes that many of the legionnaires find and hold. I nod to them, each of them, committing their faces to memory. They are the ones who, if I fail and the Beast falls, will accompany me in my flight.

There are a surprising number of them. 

We eat in a cocoon of sound. Once we sit, the legionnaires, technicians and courtiers return to their seats and conversations. Many come to our table to speak with the Beast, and a few with me. They tell me of the progress of Eden, or of their tasks preparing for the party. And I realize they are reporting to me, much as the commanders and legionnaires report to the Beast. I am not sure what has shifted. Was it no more than intervening in Hardy’s attack on the Beast? Or ordering Cays to heal him? Surely my convictions have not been in doubt before now. But perhaps they have not been on such open display, either. I thank each of them, follow the Beast’s example in asking questions of many so they know I value their opinions, and all leave with a smile.

Hardy, who has kept my right hand twined with his, resting on his thigh, since we sat down, squeezes my hand and murmurs to me, “You get a promotion while I was away?”

I lift an eyebrow at him. “If you had been here, you would know.”

“Ouch,” Hardy says. With his free hand, he plucks at the woven leather tunic he’s wearing, over his heart, as though pulling out thorns. I chuckle.

Eating with my left hand is a slow business, but neither the Beast nor Hardy seems in a hurry. The Beast picks at his food. Hardy eats without great appetite, just sampling every dish. Down the table, Cawl also leaves most of the food on his trencher untouched. Shirah’s madness, it seems, has infected them all again.

As the meal comes to its conclusion and diners begin to drift away, Elkie comes to sit across from me. She gives me a careful look out of eyes that are still red-rimmed. “Can I talk t’you, darlin’?” she asks.

“Of course.”

“In private.” She nods at the two men who flank me.

“No,” says Hardy. “Liaden doesn’t go anywhere without me.”

He’s taking his role as protector very seriously, I see. “Elkie had the opportunity to shoot me today. She didn’t. She has no reason to harm me now.”

He squeezes my hand. “I don’t care.”

Furyans. There is no reasoning with them. “Will you stick your fingers in your ears?”

Hardy snorts. “Sure.”

“Very well.” I lean over to the Beast and kiss him on the cheek. “Elkie would like a private word with me.”

“I heard. In your solarium. I’ll be there in half an hour. She’s done by then, one way or another.”

I kiss his cheek again. Whisper in his ear. “There’s nothing she can say that can make me doubt our path. Or that there is nothing we cannot face, the three of us, together.”

The Beast turns his head and looks at me. He does not smile at me, but he lets me feel the emotion behind his eyes. It is a powerful emotion, but still tinged with despair. He’s not sure I can win the war with Shirah. 

I have to give him hope.

I smile the smile he cannot manage, and brush my hand across his cheek when I rise to lead Elkie to my solarium. As he passes the Beast, Hardy rubs his free hand over the Beast’s bare scalp. The Beast grunts, but doesn’t shove Hardy’s hand away.


	27. Chapter 27

In my solarium, lit by Prokris’s bloody glow, I offer a chaise to Elkie and sit down facing her. Hardy climbs into the chaise behind me, straddles it, and draws me into the space between his legs. He settles my back against his chest. Hums his deep hum to let me know that he’s with me and we’re safe. I try not to compare it to the Beast’s contented rumble, which I know I will not hear again for some time. Then Hardy sticks his fingers in his ears.

Elkie rolls her eyes. “Really?”

“Forget he’s here. Tell me what you need to tell me.”

“Any chance of a cup of tea? I like your tea.”

“Of course.” I mix her a cup of Mandorecki Gold, myself a cup of rowela peel and nettle, and Hardy a cup of calendula and belk leaves, to keep him calm through what may be a trying night. He takes a sip and then sets his cup down on the tea table. His failure to appreciate my tea is perhaps the only fault I can find in him. I lean back against him, listen to his soft hum, and let him stroke my hair while I wait to hear what Elkie has to say.

She sips from her cup appreciatively – at least she likes my tea – before shifting from her couch to sit on the end of mine. Hardy grunts and lifts his knee, setting his heel on the cushion and pressing his leg against my side. In another moment, he’ll have wrapped both legs around me. I control a chuckle at his possessiveness. 

“I wasn’t ever going to shoot you, darlin’,” she begins.

“I know that.”

“I figure you know what Riddick was trying to do, too.”

“I do. There will be no more suicide by proxy.” 

“That go for you, too?”

“How do you mean?”

Elkie looks down into her tea. Then back at me. “I saw that sheet. I know what he did.”

“What Shirah drove him to.”

“There’s always an excuse, darlin’.”

“Is there?”

She nods and stares back into her tea. 

“What was his excuse, Elkie?” I ask softly, giving her permission to tell me.

She lifts her head and looks out of the lens. Prokris’s light shimmers in her eyes, turning them distant and haunted. “Toombs, you mean? Riddick tell you about him?”

“No. He’s told me nothing. But if you want to tell me, I will listen to anything you have to say.”

She reaches out and pats my knees, tucked to the side on the chaise as I curve into Hardy’s embrace. “Yeah, I know you will, darlin’. You’re a good listener. I figure that’s what Riddick fell for first. Along with that hair. You give great hair, darlin’.”

Hardy is certainly enjoying it at the moment, his face buried in the curve of my neck, as he winds the loose strands of my hair around his fingers. Elkie’s eyes follow his movements and her mouth twists wryly. “Can’t believe I missed that trick. If I’d known Riddick wanted that sort of threesome, I’d have strapped one on.”

I shake my head at her crudeness. “You do not have the right of it.”

“Yeah, I know. Riddick wouldn’t have shared you with anyone who could actually take you away from him. I’m too much of a threat, ain’t I?”

On many levels. “Not tonight. Will you tell me about Toombs?”

“Sure.” She pats my knee again. “I hooked up with him when I was young, and real dumb. He was handsome enough. Smart enough. My family didn’t approve, though. He was a merc. Not an honorable profession.” She wrinkles her nose. “And maybe they saw a mean streak in him that I didn’t see. They tried to warn me, but I didn’t listen. I was in love, wasn’t I? So when he left, I left with him. Never looked back. I had a man, and the promise of a future. He said he’d teach me the trade. And he sorta did. Well, he let me watch anyway, when we weren’t screwin’. We did a lotta that. An’ I saw that mean streak in him. He loved nothin’ better than to slap me around. Foreplay, he called it.”

I reach out and take her hand, hot from her teacup.

“All that screwin’ led where you’d expect. Told you, I was real dumb. Oh, I knew how to protect myself. I just didn’t. Why should I? I had a man who said he loved me. But Toombs wasn’t so crazy about having me taggin’ after him after he’d knocked me up. Wasn’t so crazy about havin’ me at all. First he just left me behind on jobs. Then he left me behind on shore leave, too. I told myself I didn’t care. I was havin’ his baby, wasn’t I? Only that didn’t seem to count for much. And when things didn’t go right, when his crew gave him trouble or a job went south, that mean streak’d come out. ‘Til it seemed all I was good for was bein’ his punching bag.”

She takes a deep breath before continuing.

“That led where you’d expect, too. When I was about as far along as you are now, the Guild fucked him over on somethin’. I never did find out what it was. He came back to the ship boilin’. So full of piss and rage he was green. He started beatin’ on me. But instead of stoppin’ when he knew I’d had enough, he kept on going. He musta knocked me out at some point, ‘cause I woke up on the floor. And he musta kicked me while I was down, ‘cause I woke up in a big fucking puddle of blood. Toombs was long gone. He probably thought he’d killed me. Nearly did, too. I lost the baby. And my spleen and a kidney. They had to replace those. Took me months to recover.”

She’s silent for a moment, and I know in my aching heart what she’s going to say next.

“An’ I can’t have kids. But you already knew that.”

From those moments of inexpressible sorrow behind her usual patented grin, I had guessed. “Oh, Elkie, I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” she says slowly. “Me, too. I’da liked a kid or two. But I couldn’t afford regen therapy on anythin’ that wasn’t vital. I’ll be workin’ off the spleen and kidney for another decade as it is.”

“What about Toombs?” I ask, hoping for some ray of light in this tragedy.

“What, are you thinkin’ I hunted him down an’ took my revenge? Sorry, darlin’, nothing like that. I took a couple of prizes away from him over the years. Made sure he knew who’d fucked him. But I never saw or spoke to him again. The universe is a funny place, though. Last I heard of Toombs, he was chasing a ghost. Kind of a legend among wildcatters. Fella by the name of Richard B. Riddick—”

“ _Riddick_?”

“Mmm-hmm. I heard when Riddick broke open Crematoria, Toombs and his entire crew went down there.”

“Riddick killed Toombs? The same Toombs?”

“I haven’t gotten around to askin’ him yet, but I think so. Ain’t two mercs got that name, not that I know of. An’ I listen pretty carefully.”

I squeeze her hand. She does listen carefully, and her perception is as penetrating as the Beast’s.

“Elkie, thank you for telling me—”

“But Riddick ain’t like that. That’s what you’re gonna say, right, darlin’? I’m not sayin’ he is. Riddick’s a hellofa lot smarter than Toombs was on his best day. But there’re a lotta ways a man can hurt a woman. He don’t need to use his fists if he’s smart.”

Hardy’s hands in my hair have stilled. He reaches out and wraps his arm around my chest, pulling me tight to him. I pat his arm with my free hand.

“Elkie, I am sorrier than I can say for what happened to you. I wish I could do something to make up for your loss—”

“You can,” she says, taking my hand in both of hers. “You can make sure it don’t happen to you.”

“There is no chance of it happening to me,” I say, above Hardy’s rising growl.

“I talked to Cays. It almost happened to you today.”

I like Cays but the healer needs to learn to keep her mouth shut. “The baby wasn’t in any danger—”

“But _you_ were. Liaden, whatever’s driving him, whatever excuse he gives you, you can’t trust him anymore—”

I pull my hand from her grasp and put my fingers over her lips. Look into those haunted hazel eyes. “I know who to trust. You are a good, kind friend to warn me this way. To share your pain with me. But don’t presume to know what lies between me and Riddick.”

“I know exactly what lies between you. I’ve seen the marks he leaves on you and I know where it goes. Darlin’, listen to me. I’ve been there. I’ve lain there in my own bloody clothes, telling myself he didn’t mean it, that he loves me, that it won’t happen again. But it does—”

“I won’t let it,” Hardy growls.

“Please, Hardy,” I say over my shoulder to silence him. “Elkie, I haven’t been where you’ve been. I didn’t lie there telling myself he didn’t mean it and that he loves me and it won’t happen again. I lay there recognizing that he was driven to it and that the one who drove him has no love for me and it will happen again and again unless I can stop her.”

“This isn’t all Shirah’s doin’.”

“No, some of it is Riddick,” I admit. “She’s twisting him, but he couldn’t be twisted if he wasn’t already a violent man, attracted to violence. There is something in him that responds to her fear. It excites him. That’s always been true of him, I suspect.”

“Darlin’—”

“You don’t have to explain the nature of the man I love to me. I know it well.”

“Do you?”

“Yes. I understand what he needs. What drives him. I have no fear of it. Or of him.”

“Well, darlin’, maybe you should.”

Her words leave a chill on my heart and I sit in Hardy’s arms long after she leaves. The Beast has not joined us, although it is more than a half-hour since we retired to my solarium. I mix a fresh cup of tea and sip it while I wait.

“If I asked you to come with me, you’d say no, wouldn’t you?” Hardy asks from behind me. He let me sit forward to make my tea, but then pulled me back against his chest and wrapped his arms tight around me. It’s hard to drink my tea, pressed against him, but I understand his need and do not ask him to release me.

“It depends on where you are asking me to go,” I respond.

“Away. Off planet. Somewhere no one can hurt you.”

“There’s no such place. You know that better than most, my heart.”

He grunts. “What’d you call me?”

“My heart.”

“Not your love?”

He’s heard my endearment for the Beast. But I will not use the same term for him. “You are also my love, but you are not Riddick. You are different. You are unique. You are my gentle, quiet, clever, brave Hardy who has given me his heart and holds mine in return. You are my heart.”

“Huh." He's quiet for a moment. "Well, that’s okay then.” I can hear him smile. “You nearly broke me today, you know that?“

“You broke me. How could I forgive anyone what you did? I’ve killed men for less.”

“I know.” Hardy brushes my hair aside and feathers his fingers over my shoulder. “That’s what these marks mean. Riddick told me.”

“The two of you need to find a topic of conversation other than me.”

Hardy’s fingers on my shoulder still. “Haven’t talked about what he did to you.”

They haven’t talked about it, or we haven’t talked about it? Either way, it’s not something I want to discuss. “I’d like to close that topic of conversation, too. It happened. I know why it happened. I know I have to stop it from happening again. Can we speak of something else?”

Hardy hums his assent. Then he reaches down and rests his hand on the font of my belly. “Could talk about this.”

“The baby? Very well. Perhaps you can suggest some names for her. Riddick intends to call her Baby.”

Hardy chuckles. “He knows what he’s going to call her. He’s just playin’ with you. This one’s his. The next one’s mine.” 

“The next one?” I haven’t even decided if I’m having another. After today, I’m even less sure.

“Yeah.” He strokes the bulge of my belly. “After I got your message, out there in the jungle, I did something I’ve never done before. Something you do. I prayed. To your god—”

“To Xia?”

“Uh-huh. I prayed that I could be with you, like we should be. Like I want to be. And when I went to sleep, I had a dream. Not the nightmares I’ve been having. A good dream. You and me and Riddick, walking together. On a beach with black sand. Between you and Riddick, there was a little girl. Maybe four, maybe a little less. She was riding on the back of a hellhound. And between you and me, there was a little boy. Just learning to walk. Toddling along between us as we held his hands. I didn’t have to see his face to know he was mine. Felt it, right down inside.”

“You dreamed that?” I ask softly.

“Yeah.”

“Xia has spoken to me in dreams. They feel very different, the dreams Xia sends. Did this dream feel very different? Very real?”

“Real as sitting here with you.”

Thank you, Xia. Thank you, sweet Xia.

Hardy rubs back up my belly, until his hands are under my breasts. Almost cupping them. I close my eyes and melt into him, feeling that hesitant touch all the way to my core. “It’s why I came back. I got your message and I heard what you said, but I still didn’t know if I could do it and I didn’t want you to waste your time on me. But after that dream, I knew I could. Some day I’ll be able to be with you the way you want me to be and I’ll give you that little boy.”

“I will take whatever part of you I can get, my heart.”

He hums his pleasure and nuzzles my neck and slowly, slowly his hand slides up to oh-so-gently cup my breast.

 

The Beast finally joins us, but only after we have spent an hour on the chaise, touching and kissing until my very bones have melted. I know I will go to bed unsatisfied tonight. Hardy is not ready for more, and the Beast will not touch me, not now while he still fears himself. But I will let my wholesome desire for these two men gird me, fuel me in my battle with Shirah. The final battle. The war will be won or lost tonight.

When the Beast enters my solarium, I am lying against Hardy on the couch, my back to his chest. He’s stroking my cheek and jaw. We stopped kissing when it became unbearable for both of us, and have just been touching each other softly since then. The Beast’s nostrils flare as he nears the chaise and I have no doubt that he can smell my arousal. His neck flushes red, and I wish I could bring him into our circle to finish what Hardy has started. One day, I pray I will be able to.

But not tonight. I see the darkness in his eyes as he looks at us. He knows he cannot join us. He knows he has ruptured my deep trust. Torn it as he tore my body. Like my flesh, my trust will heal, in time. But not immediately. I may lie in his arms tonight as I try to free him from Shirah’s hateful grasp, but not without Hardy’s protection. I will not fear him, no matter how Elkie’s words have chilled me, but I do not trust him, either.

“Wouldn’t ask that of you,” he says, stopping a meter away and crossing his arms over his chest.

“What?” asks Hardy.

“To trust him again,” I say. I sit up slowly, drawing myself out of Hardy’s arms. “Time heals all wounds, my love.”

“You sure about that?”

I have to hope so. “You said I gave you hope for the future. Will you let me give you hope in this, too?”

The Beast nods, but only Prokris’s bloody light shines in his eyes. Not belief. Not hope. 

I will have to hope enough for both of us. I cling to Hardy’s dream, Xia’s vision, of what our future might be. That will sustain me tonight and all the nights to come, until we walk on that beach, hand-in-hand, with our children. “Gentlemen, will you accompany me to bed?”

Hardy uncoils from the chaise and takes my hand. I take the Beast’s and while he does not pull away, I sense it is an effort for him to let me touch him. The depth of his self-loathing is abyssal.

“Still don’t like it when she calls us ‘gentlemen’,” Hardy says to the Beast as we leave my solarium.

“It’s a red flag. If she calls you ‘gentleman,’ means she don’t think you’re actin’ like one.”

That’s not entirely true. I call them “gentlemen” to _encourage_ them to behave as gentlemen. I let that thought ring clear in my mind and know the Beast sees it by the way he grunts.

“Gentlemen,” I say. “I would very much like it if you’d find a topic of conversation other than me.”

“You’re what we got in common,” the Beast says.

“I’m not all you have in common. You’re both Furyan. You’re both hunters—”

“That’s true,” Hardy says. “Haven’t told you what I found out there.”

Because he was too busy trying to kill the Beast and the Beast was too busy letting him. I offer no comment, but know the Beast hears that thought, too.

“I swore, Liaden,” he grunts. “Let it lie.”

“I heard you. When I see you forgive yourself, then I will believe you.”

The Beast yanks his hand out of mine and turns to face me, despite the fact we are in the middle of a busy corridor. “You never had to forgive yourself for doin’ the worst thing you could imagine,” he growls. “So don’t pretend you know—”

“Haven’t I?” I raise my chin. I will not let him wallow in self-hatred. “Once the worst thing I could imagine was betraying my Lord Marshal and lying with his killer—”

“’Cause you were fuckin’ brainwashed.”

“No, because loyalty is the mote of my soul. It was only when I saw Zhylaw for what he was, and realized he was not deserving of my loyalty, that I forgave myself for betraying him. You were worthy of my loyalty. You _are_ worthy—”

“No.” He shakes his head.

“Do not presume to dictate my loyalty. Or my love. You are still worthy of both.”

“Li—”

Despite the public location, I reach up and cup his cheek. “You are still worthy of both,” I say forcefully. I feel Hardy press himself into my back, pushing me into the Beast. I take the step forward to close the gap between our bodies. 

Hardy reaches over my shoulder to grasp the Beast’s neck. “If she can forgive you,” he says.

The Beast’s eyes flicker over my head to meet those of the Furyan behind me. “I should forgive myself?”

“Yeah,” Hardy says.

“Ain’t that easy. You know it.”

“I know it ain’t easy to let go. I know it ain’t easy to look at her and wonder if you can ever be with her the way you should be. ‘Least you know you can. You were before and you can be again, you let yourself. All I’m going on is faith.”

The Beast looks at him, then down at me. He holds my eyes for a long moment. Then he cuffs Hardy roughly on the side of his head. 

Taking that as acquiescence, I push back against Hardy so I have enough space to breathe, take both men’s hands again and lead them toward the sanctum.

 

I consider wearing a gown to bed. The memory of what happened to my last nightgown dissuades me. And I may need the power of skin-on-skin tonight. 

The Beast wears briefs, and after a murmured discussion from which I am excluded, loans Hardy a pair to wear as well. We climb into bed with the Beast on my right, although I don’t know if he’ll let me rest my head on his heart tonight. Hardy slides in on my left. My confidence that he, at least, will want to hold me is somewhat undermined when he tucks a pillow between our bodies. When he turns on his side and presses the pillow tight against me, I realize the why of it. I cannot feel his body from waist to knee, and he cannot feel mine for the same distance. He doesn’t want to rub himself against me. He doesn’t want me to feel threatened by his arousal, and my heart swells at his considerate care.

The Beast puts his hands behind his head and stretches back into the pillows. He is not relaxed, though. I can feel the rigidity of his body as he lies beside me. 

“So the big plan is for me to fall asleep and let you go poking around in my head to see what I’m dreaming about, huh?” he asks. “You know you ain’t gonna like what you find.”

“If you have a better plan, I would be happy to hear it.”

His high grunt tells me he doesn’t have any other plan. 

“So I’m clear, how does this work?” Hardy asks.

“Told you I can see inside her head when she’s near me. When I concentrate on what she’s thinking,” the Beast answers.

“Yeah, you said. ‘Cause of the thing on her neck.”

How quickly they go back to talking about me as though I wasn’t in the room. But Hardy deserves an explanation, and the Beast speaks so rarely of our connection through my Collar that I am curious to see what he says.

“That’s right. Link’d go both ways, if I let it. I gotta work to keep her out of my head. Just let her see the things I want her to see. Dreams leak through sometimes anyway.” He shrugs. “Other things, if they’re strong enough. So the plan’s for me to stop blockin’ her. Let her go nosin’ around wherever she wants.”

“I said I would not,” I remind him softly.

“I’ve been practicing for more’n six months an’ I still see shit I’m not lookin’ for, Liaden. You know how many times I’ve seen your sister’s birth in your head? Heard your mother screamin’? Dozens, practically every time you think about the baby. You think I wanted to see that over an’ over? Trust me, once was fuckin’ enough.”

I didn’t know he saw things in my mind he didn’t want to see. “I’m sorry, my love.”

“Don’t be. All I’m sayin’ is that you won’t have much control over what you see. If I’m dreamin’ it, you’ll see it. If you stumble over one of my memories, you’ll feel it. And they’ll become your memories. Everything I’ve seen in your head is in mine now, like it happened to me.” 

I didn’t know that, either. “Would you rather . . . should I block you out of my thoughts?”

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare.”

“Don’t,” Hardy echoes. He presses his face into my hair. Reaches across and curls his hand on my stomach. “I’d give anything to be able to read your mind like that. If I could and then you blocked me out, it’d be worse than you hating me. It’d make me crazy.”

The Beast gives a deep grunt of agreement. “Remember when I dismissed you an’ your Collar went dead? I had no idea that’d happen. I felt your mind close to me and I was back on that arctic ball of rock, alone and slowly freezin’ to death. Listening to the wind howl, knowing that was the last voice I’d ever hear. Nearly killed me. So don’t you even think about keepin’ me out.”

I lift my hand and let it fall back against his shoulder. My knuckles resting on his overheated skin. A touch, without being a caress. A connection, without any demand. I felt the Collar die when he dismissed me, but I had no idea what it felt like to him. He has not shared this with me before, as he has not shared so much, and tonight that may undo us both.

“Only thing keepin’ me sane right now,” the Beast whispers. “Is bein’ in your head. Feelin’ you believe you can forgive me. Watchin’ that fuckin’ memory fade bit by bit, every time he touches you. That’s all I’m holding on to.”

I had not thought that he could see the memory of the assault in my head, but of course he can. I resolve never to think of it again. “I can forgive you. The memory will fade and we’ll make new memories. Good, strong, powerful memories. As good and strong and powerful as the memories of our times together before. Surely you can see those memories, too? Surely they outweigh that one?”

“That one’s pretty fuckin’ fresh.”

“I told you, my love, time heals all wounds. That memory will fade, until it is nothing, not even a shadow of a ghost.”

Hardy winds my hair around his fingers. “You think all memories can fade like that?”

“Yes, I do,” I say, recognizing that it is more of a promise than a statement. “In time.”

He rubs his thumb up and down my neck. “How long you think it takes?”

“I don’t know.” I turn my head and look into the Beast’s eyes. “I only know it will happen.”

He meets my gaze. His eyes have dulled to pewter. 

I lift my hand from his shoulder and stroke his cheek with my fingertips. “I promise, my love.” 

“Yeah,” he says, but there is no hope in his voice. “Want you to know, whatever you see in here, it’s not what I am now.”

“I know who you are.”

“Liaden, I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“You’ll remember. I believe in you. In us, the three of us. There’s nothing we can’t face together, remember?”

The Beast nods without conviction. “Never gonna get to sleep like this. Old Man gave me somethin’. It won’t put me down for long. An hour or two. You think that’ll be long enough?”

“There’s no deadline on your well-being, my love. It takes as long as it takes. I’ll try as many times as I have to. Until I break her hold on you, and you can be yourself again.”

“Yeah, okay.” The Beast rolls away, out of the bed. He collects something from his desk and returns to slide down next to me. He hands me an ampule and an injector. “In my neck.”

I slide up onto my elbow. Hardy follows me and leans over my shoulder. “I could do it,” he offers.

“Fuck you,” the Beast grunts. “Don’t trust anyone but Liaden near my neck with a needle.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the grin that Hardy flashes the Beast. “Could stick it somewhere else.”

I end their bickering by slotting the ampule into the injector, pressing it against the Beast’s strong throat, away from his jugular, and squeezing the trigger. The Beast grimaces at the prick of the needle. He plucks the injector out of his neck, out of my hand, and tosses it to the floor.

“How long will it take?” I ask.

“Dunnow,” he says. He pushes back into the pillows, the way he does before he falls asleep. His eyelids slide over those dull pewter eyes. “Few minutes.”

In only a few seconds, he is asleep, breathing deeply. The furrows on his brow smooth and his body finally relaxes.

“That was quick,” Hardy observes.

“Tomoetu knows his Lord Marshal well.”

“So do you.” Hardy runs his hand up my back, tracing the spine of my Collar. “You’re saying all the right things to him, Liaden. Might not feel like it, but you’re keeping him going.”

I look over my shoulder at him. “How do you know that?”

“I’m listening to you, too.” He offers me one of his rare and beautiful smiles.

I return it wholeheartedly. “Will you hold me while I do what I must?” For all the many times I have wished that the Beast would share his past with me, I now wish to see nothing of it. I dread what I will find in his head.

“Hold you anytime. You don’t have to ask.”

“Thank you.” I lie back against him. He slides his arm under my head, sweeping my hair out of the way so he doesn’t trap it under his weight. I smile at his care. The Beast is solicitous of my comfort, too, but not to the extent Hardy is. I’ve never felt more precious than in Hardy’s hands.

He keeps the pillow between us as he fits his body to mine. He curls his free hand around my belly, supporting it as I lie on my side. Hesitantly, he slides his leg through mine. I am grateful for his slow movements, nothing like the Beast’s sudden assault. The difference keeps me relaxed in his arms. I reach out and put my hand on the Beast’s chest. I don’t know if I’ll need the point of connection, but I always feel closest to the Beast when we’re actually touching. It cannot hurt.

“Liaden,” Hardy whispers. “If you want to, you can tell me what you see. You don’t have to do this alone.”

His care warms me as I feel down the Collar’s link. This is not a journey I make often, and always with caution. Never before has it felt as wintry as the ice world the Beast described. I shiver and am deeply grateful for Hardy’s arms around me. “Thank you, my heart.”


	28. Chapter 28

I cannot tell him the first thing I see. The image that is right on the surface of the Beast’s mind. My twisted, torn body, sprawled across this very bed. My eyes sightless. My neck broken. A pool of blood between my thighs. 

That is not a memory. Not a dream. It is his fear. I push through it, shattering the image like glass, and go deeper into his mind than I have ever been before.

Behind it is the image of another broken, bloody woman. Kyra. His Kyra. Lying on the floor of the throne room. Bleeding from the spike that pierced her heart.

Behind that, another. A small, pale blonde, speared through the gut with a blade of bone. Dragged out of his hands into the rain-slashed night. 

Another. A tawny-skinned woman, her brown curls matted to her head. Her eyes rolled back to show the blood-shot whites. Her throat bulging from the pressure of her own tongue. 

Another. A raven-haired woman, seated in a chair. A wire sunk deep into the purpled skin of her neck. Her arms bound behind her back. Her breasts and thighs exposed, mottled with bruises, where her dress has been torn away. 

Another. A golden-blonde, barely more than a child. Sprawled at his feet as she rasps her last breaths, bubbling through holes in her chest.

His past is a catalog of dead women.

I break through each image, one by one. I do not know which ones are real, like that final memory of Kyra, or imagined, like his terror for me. There are dozens. One after another. Blonde, brunette, red-headed and raven-haired. His failures, real and imagined. Women he could not save.

Finally, I push through an image of a black-skinned woman in flames, screaming as she pounds on a closed airlock, and find nothing beyond it. I am in the bedrock of his mind. Inside a jungle, thick and steaming. Each leaf, each twig, each rock, shimmers with a different memory. I am careful to touch none as I cross the unfamiliar landscape of his mind.

“I’m in a jungle,” I whisper to Hardy.

“Describe it,” he tells me and when I do, he grunts. “Furya’s jungle.”

It should not surprise me that the Beast’s mental landscape is patterned after his homeworld’s jungle. He has dreamed of it for as long as he can remember. It is the place he is most at home, and most fears.

_Running. Can’t breathe. Can’t think._

I reach for that fear and find it almost at once. Around a grove of lueke trees, their slender trunks swaying and hissing in the hot breeze. The red-gold light filtering through the trees, pleasant a moment before, now stabs and sears. It bruises the verdant green of the jungle to violet, and I realize I am seeing out of his eyes. The purple grass and trees blur as he tears past them, driven by urges so primal, there is no denying them. To hunt. To kill. To mate.

Despite those primal, screaming urges, he struggles. He knows this dream well. He hates and fears it. He battles the howling in his blood, raging, slashing at the foliage with his fists. Memories fall glittering to the ground, flashing seductively at me as they fall, showing me tantalizing glimpses of his past. I ignore them. I said I would not invade his past and I will not. What I am looking for is before me. In the twisting path he follows through the jungle. It is not a trail on the ground, but a trail in the air. A scent: rotting, nose-curling, stomach-clenching. Meat left in the sun too long. It weaves through the trees like sickly yellow smoke and he follows it. Unwilling. Fighting each step. But drawn inexorably.

The rank trail leads him through the jungle, scrambling up hills, slipping down slopes covered with the fallen leaves of almost-forgotten memories. Finally, the trail plunges underground, into a dank, dripping cave. The stink here is so thick it smothers him. Fills his lungs until they burn. He coughs in harsh barks, but still he’s driven on.

Shirah waits for him deep underground. She stands naked in the middle of a dark pool. Her legs are stained black. Her hands, when she holds them out to him, are stained black. She stands in a pool of old blood.

“Become the Furyor,” she says to him. Blood runs from the corners of her mouth, slipping down over her chin to spatter her high breasts.

“No!” the Beast roars, still fighting, although the fire in his own blood drives him toward her. To take what is his by right, birthright, bloodright. He does not want to take it. She does not want to give it. There will be no joy in their joining. Only pain and blood, and he does not desire it.

I step away from him. Drawing out of him until I no longer see what he sees. The cave washes into true color, no more appealing than through the magenta glimmer of his shined eyes. I step between them. Put my hand on his chest and push him back gently. Out of the pool. Out of the cave. He stumbles backwards, but doesn’t resist when I drive him away from Shirah.

Once he is back out in the jungle, I return to the cave, to the pool, and face Shirah, on my own.

She lies in the pool, floating. She lifts her hand into the air so blood drips down her arm, red-black against her golden skin. She laughs. “Is this my blood, Liaden, or yours?”

No single body contains so much blood. “It’s the blood of all women, spilled by force.”

“Riddick has spilled yours. I’ve seen his memory of it. I’ve replayed it for him many times. I particularly like the part where you scream. Don’t you hate him for it?”

“No,” I say truthfully. “I still love him. You drove him to madness, and think I would hate him for that?”

“I? I didn’t drive him to madness. He drove himself. If he’d give in, take the cloak and spear, _take it all_ ,” she hisses. “It would end.”

“He doesn’t want you. You’re forcing him as much as you fear he will force you.”

She bursts out of the pool, hovering above it, her hair flapping like a blood-soaked shroud. Here, in the Beast’s mind, in his dreams, there is no gravity, no physics. She can strike at me any way she wants, and she does, flying at me, clawing at me with hands and razor-edged hair.

I clutch at her, at her flesh which tears like wet tissue in my hands, at her slimy sea-kelp hair, and throw her back into the pool. “He doesn’t want you,” I say again. “Driving him to take what he doesn’t want won’t make him love you. It will just make him mad.”

“He’s already mad!” she screams. “Let me show you!”

She throws memories at me like knives. They pierce me. Bite deep. I feel them begin to fill me. Horror after horror. Darkness and hunger and pain. And monsters, so many monsters. Human monsters, panting over him, piercing him as his memories pierce me. Furred monsters, tearing at his flesh. Scaled monsters. Mandibled monsters. An endless stream of monsters, each howling for his blood.

“Oh, my poor love,” I whisper.

“Tell me, Liaden.” Hardy’s warm, low voice in my ear.

I describe each memory that cuts me. Each monster. And when I do, they wisp away into smoke. They are only memories, and they have only the power we give them.

“Enough, Shirah,” I say. “Riddick has faced many demons. That they live in his mind doesn’t make him mad.” The barrage of memories flickers and fades. Shirah stands in the pool facing me, but she has no further weapons to use against me. “It makes him strong.”

“No, he’s weak! All men are weak! Driven by their lusts. They’re nothing but monsters!”

“Oh, Shirah, no. Can’t you see what you do? You paint them as monsters, and then you drive them to fulfill your fears. They’re not monsters. They’re good men. Flawed, fallible men, but good men. Loving men. Riddick fights you because he strives to be human. He doesn’t want to be a monster.”

“He is! He is a monster! How can you say he’s a good man after what he did to you?!”

“I say it because you drove him to it. All men can be driven to monstrosity. All men can be driven to madness. It doesn’t make them monsters, or madmen. Not in their hearts. It just makes them victims.”

“You’re the victim,” she sneers. “To stay with him after he’s abused you.”

“No, I’m not a victim. I’m a fighter. Just like Riddick. Why do you think he chose me as his mate? The mother of his child? Because I do not give in. Not to him. Not to you. Not to anyone.” I reach into my hair. There is no true physicality in this place, but that is where I wear the Rift clasp, and that is where I place it in my mind. My weapon, the weapon of the Lord Marshal’s Right Hand. His last, best line of defense. I draw it out and clutch it, cold and smooth, in my palm. “I told you that if you followed this path, my hand would be raised against you. I pray this only casts you from his mind. But if it consumes your soul, your real soul, out there, I cannot say I will mourn you.”

I shatter the gem against the rough rock wall of the cave. The Rift’s howling fills the cave, rippling the pool of blood into black waves. I grasp the Rift with my mind, my will. It is a demented thing. Twisting and tearing in my grasp. It has never been more wild, bucking against my hold. But I am strong. I have controlled the Rift for years. I will not bend. I will not break. I am strong and I fight for the man I love. The father of our child. The lord of my soul. 

I push the Rift across the dark pool and listen to Shirah’s scream as she is sucked down into the emptiness of the Void.

Riddick jolts under my hand. His eyes open, searching the darkened ceiling above us, then flicking like searchlights until they settle on my face. I smile gently at him.

“Is she dead?” he asks.

“I don’t think so, but I will send Caden to find out. Is she gone from your mind?”

“Yeah.” He blinks heavily. His eyelids slide down to shutter the searchlights. “Yeah, she’s gone.”

“Good.” I stroke his chest. “Rest, my love.”

He nods and closes his eyes with a sigh.

I wait until he sleeps deeply again before I pat Hardy to release me. I draw on a robe and find Caden. Although I tell him the inquiry can wait until morning, he insists on determining Shirah’s fate immediately, himself. Once he is gone, I rejoin Hardy, who I find sitting on the floor in front of the great lens, looking out over the darkened shore. His knees are drawn up to his chest. He doesn’t uncoil when I approach, so I sit down behind him, slide my legs to either side of his, put my arms around him and rest my cheek against his broad, scarred back.

“Are you alright, my heart?” I ask. I don’t know how much he heard. I know I was speaking aloud, and that he weathered Riddick’s demons with me, but I don’t know if that has affected him badly. Has it resurrected his demons? Is he looking out at the beach but seeing only that hated chair?

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry I cannot end your nightmares the way I’ve ended Riddick’s.”

He grunts. “I haven’t had any. Not since that dream.”

“The one of our son?”

“Yeah. You think if I pray to your god again, he’ll let me see into your mind the way Riddick does?”

I kiss the back of his neck. “I think Xia has already given you a great gift. Gifts from the gods carry a price. Asking for further gifts invites such a cost. I would not see you pay that price. Not for something I can give you freely.”

“You can let me into your head?”

“I can tell you what I’m thinking, whenever you want to know.”

“It’s not the same.”

“Would you prefer to see what Riddick has seen? Memories I cannot control. My sister’s birth? My mother’s screams? Her blood on the furs? Over and over. Is that what you want?”

“No, I just want to know what you want. So I don’t fuck up again.”

“I want you to come back to bed and hold me while I sleep.”

“You don’t need me for that anymore. You’re safe with Riddick now.”

Does he think I don’t need him anymore? That I only required him as a protector? “Whether or not I am safe with Riddick, I want you to come back to bed and hold me while I sleep. Tonight. Tomorrow. Next week. Next month. Next year, and all the years to come. I want to fall asleep in your arms and wake up to your voice in my ear. I want to hear about your dreams, whether or not they come from Xia. I want to eat with you. Hunt with you. Make love with you. And at the party, I want to dance with you.”

He snorts. “I can’t dance.”

“I will happily teach you.”

“What do I bring to this, Liaden? You don’t need me now. Maybe you never did. I heard what you said to Shirah. About you being a fighter. Not giving in to anyone. That’s true. You fought off Riddick, didn’t you? He hurt you, but he didn’t kill you. That’s what Shirah was trying for. Did he prevent that, or did you?”

I stroke my fingers over the back of his neck, down and then back up, ruffling the fine, dark hair. “I did. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is that I need you. Always. Not as a protector, although I welcome your protection. I need you because my heart lies here.” I slide my fingers down his neck, over his bunched shoulder, between his knees and his chest. “You want to know what I’m thinking? I’ll tell you. When you first came to me, I thought I would have to divide my affections. I thought I would have to take away from what I felt for Riddick in order to feel for you. But that’s not the truth of it. You made my heart grow, swell like a blossom, until it’s twice the size it was when you came to me. So I can love you both. I had no idea I could love so much, Hardy, until I came to love you.”

He uncoils, slowly, so I have time to release him. Gently, so I know I don’t have anything to fear. He turns and opens his arms and I slide into them and he folds me tight against his chest. “Is that true?”

“Everything I say to you is true,” I whisper.

“You said we weren’t monsters. But I am a monster, Liaden. I’ve lied and hurt and killed. I’ve left behind people I should have protected. I’ve run away when I should have fought. I’m not like you. I’ve given in. I’ve broken—”

“You heard everything I said to Shirah?” At his nod, I continue, “Then you know that makes you a victim in my eyes. Not a monster.” I reach up and cup his face, drawn into such pained lines. “I couldn’t love a monster, Hardy. And I love you. See yourself through my eyes, my gentle, strong, brave man.”

“I can’t. I want to. I want to be inside your head and see myself the way you see me. But I can’t.” He shakes his head, and lowers it until I can only see shadows.

I cup his jaw in my hands but he won’t let me lift his head. “Let me tell you how I see you. Every morning. Every night, I will tell you how I see you. I will tell you of the void your tenderness fills in me. Which I didn’t even know was wanting until you touched me so sweetly. I will tell you how each of your rare and beautiful smiles makes my soul kindle. Every time I laugh with you, every time I smile at you, every touch we share, know that I am seeing you. The man I love. Not a monster. A man, who has seen and known too much pain and horror. Who has been wounded by what he has seen and done, but who, with me, is healing. Who, with me, is looking to the future. Our bright future. My heart, can you not see that with me?”

He nods and when he lifts his head to me, I see wetness under his eyes. I wipe his cheeks with my thumbs. 

“Didn’t think you’d need me anymore,” he says. “Not now that Riddick’s okay. I know he just wanted me as back-up.”

“He may have, but I never wanted you that way. I don’t do things by half-measures—”

He chokes on a laugh. “No joking.”

“I love rarely, but when I do, I love immoderately. And forever. My love is not contingent on circumstances. It is not part of a grand strategy. I love you because I love you. I always will. There is nothing more or less than that.” I kiss his wet cheeks gently. “I would very much like it if you loved me in return.”

He chuckles. “You know I do.”

Which is more than I can say of Riddick. Riddick, who I will not call a beast again, not even in my thoughts. I have seen too much of his struggle against becoming a monster, and I know now that he can see things in my mind that I do not wish him to. He has, doubtless, seen that I call him a beast in my thoughts. Even if It is with affection, it is still a moniker that dubs him less than human. Less than worthy of that most human of emotions. Perhaps that is why he has not told me he loves me. Perhaps he believes I don’t think him capable of it.

I return my full attention to the man in my arms. “Then, my beloved man, would you please come back to bed and hold me while I sleep?”

Hardy shakes his head. “The bed smells like your pain. Can we sleep here?”

“On the floor?”

“Yeah. I’ll make a bed for us.”

I nod and let him slide away to collect pillows and furs from the bed. While he’s across the room, the lens flashes and I tap it to take Caden’s call.

“The Furyan woman lives,” he tells me. “But she’s very ill. Vomiting blood.”

I nod at his image. “Has she had her coating of clay today?” I ask.

“Yes, Lady Marshal. Twice a day, as you commanded.”

“Good.” Although I have broken her hold over Riddick, and Xia has freed Hardy, she can continue to torture the other Furyans so long as she is fertile. “In the morning, Caden. In the morning, send Cays to her.” If she survives the night, she can have the dubious comfort of Necromonger healing.

“Yes, Lady Marshal.”

“Thank you, Caden. Will I see you at the party tomorrow?”

“Yes, Lady. You’ll see everyone at the party tomorrow.” He gives me a broad, crooked grin, which I return.

I tap the lens and turn to Hardy. He’s arranged the pillows and furs into a nest on the floor. I glance at the bed to ensure that he’s left a cover over Riddick, which he has. His recognition that Riddick no longer needs him has not altered his affection. Reassured, I climb into Hardy’s nest. It is surprisingly comfortable and when he folds the fur over us, I shrug out of my robe and into his arms.

“You tired?” he asks me.

Pleasantly, but not overly. “If you would like to stay awake for a time, to talk, or . . . anything else you would like to do.” I turn over so we are face-to-face, but maintaining a distance between our bodies. Not asking more than he can give.“I am not adverse.”

He reaches out to tuck my hair behind my ear. “I’d like to try. You okay with that? Just, you know, some. Maybe not all the way this time. Just some. Riddick told me not to leave you wanting and I did before—”

I put my fingers over his mouth. Smile when he presses a kiss into them. “There is no premium on my satisfaction, my heart. What we do, we do purely for our mutual pleasure. When it is not pleasurable, we’ll stop. And to be honest, I wouldn’t mind if we take it slowly.”

“We don’t have to do anything. I don’t want to push you, either.”

I smile at him, my gentle, gentle man, find his hand under the covers and bring it to my breast. “We can do as much or as little as you would like.”

 

He would like a great deal, as it turns out. We kiss for a long time, languidly, sensuously, while Prokris sets and the room darkens to midnight. He likes my weight on him, and turns so he lies propped on pillows, with my body stretched the full length of his. My belly nestles naturally into the lean curve between his ribs and hips. The baby kicks him several times while we’re kissing, which draws chuckles out of us both. He’s kept his borrowed briefs on, but they’re soon soaked from his slow rocking between my thighs. He could bring me with little effort, but he doesn’t and I don’t ask it of him. I’m enjoying the fine, humming tension that builds and builds with each touch. I am in no hurry to bring it to an end. 

His fingers walk up and down my spine, following the scales of my Collar. He’s asked me whether I feel anything through the metal, which I don’t. So he’s explored every ridge and dimple of my skin along the metal’s edge. “Did it hurt?” he asks. We’ve been speaking in whispers, not because we fear waking Riddick, who is finally catching up on the sleep he’s missed, but because of a growing sense of intimacy. “When they put it on you, did it hurt?”

“Yes,” I admit. “But that’s not what I remember about the collaring. Shall I tell you what I remember?”

“Yeah.”

“My body rejected the metal. My skin cracked. I bled constantly. Tomoetu could not heal me. As soon as he finished, my skin would split again. He said there was a small hope that if salve was rubbed in whenever my skin split, I might be saved. Zhylaw, the former Lord Marshal, forbid it. He said he would not waste his healers on me. So my fellow concubines, Aimi, Illoru and Gennica, sat with me and rubbed the salve into my skin. They took turns sitting with me hour after hour. They told me stories and held me when I cried from the pain. And finally my body accepted the Collar. They saved my life with their gentle fingers. Your fingers . . . your gentle fingers . . . your fingers remind me of theirs.”

He stretches up for a kiss and strokes my back. “Think I might save your life someday?”

“I hope you never have to. I am content just to have your gentleness salve my soul.” 

“Am I?” he asks. “Am I helping?”

More than he could know. I have not thought about the attack once while we have lain together. “A great deal.”

“Will you tell me about it? I don’t want to make a mistake with you. I don’t want to do anything that reminds you of what happened.”

“Nothing you do reminds me of that.”

“Li.” He frames my hand with his face. “Please.”

I take a deep breath and tell him as dispassionately as I can. “He woke me by pulling the covers off me. He pushed me onto my stomach. He held me down by my hair and pushed my face into the pillows so I couldn’t breathe while he . . . took me from behind. I wasn’t ready and he tore me. I managed to get him off me, but not soon enough. That’s all.”

“That’s not all.”

I bite my lips. “No, it’s not all, but that’s the worst of it. So, if you don’t mind, for a while, I’d like you to stay in front of me.”

“’Course I will.” He smiles gently. Draws me to him again to kiss me while his fingers feather over my skin.

When he lets me up from the deep, dark water of his kiss, I ask, “Hardy, will you tell me what happened? As you fear making a mistake with me, I worry about reminding you of that terrible chair.”

He shifts me onto my side and looks down into my eyes. “Nothing you do reminds me of that.”

He does so like to echo my words back to me. I trace his full lips, reddened from our kisses. “Please, my heart?”

“I swear, there’s nothing you do that reminds me of that. But there is something I’ve got to show you. I don’t want to. Fuck, I don’t want to. But you’re going to have to see it sooner or later. Might as well be now.”

He folds back the furs so I can see the long line of his body, rich umber in the darkness, still marked with the fading edges of bruises from his battle with Riddick. With one hand, he peels his wet briefs down. Curving his other arm around my head, he wraps his fingers over my eyes. He presses a kiss to my forehead. “Feel it first.” He takes my hand and guides it down to his groin.

I press my open hand against him. I know his shape already, thicker than Riddick, but mercifully not as lengthy. I know he is more curved, and against the soft flesh of my palm, I feel a distinct bend, almost a knot, in his shaft.

“My heart, may I see you?”

“Yeah.” He takes his hand away from my eyes, pressing it against my cheek for a moment. 

I slide up onto my elbow so that I can look down at him. I tilt my hand, stroking his tight sac with my fingertips, to reveal him. His phallus is a deep plum against the inky shadows of his groin. Riveting to my eye and impossible not to touch. The kink in his length is less evident visually, but now that I know where it is, my eyes are drawn to it. I run my thumb carefully down his shaft and feel the bend. He shivers as my thumb passes over it.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not anymore.”

“Will you tell me what happened?”

“I broke it. Forcing it into that tube. Ruptured something inside. They fixed it, but it’s never been the same.”

“Oh, my darling.” I take my hand from him so I can wind my arms around him. Hold him close. “My poor, poor man.”

“Just wanted you to know,” he whispers. “We’ve both been torn.”

“We have. But we’ve both survived, and come to this moment, when we can heal each other. May I touch you again?”

He smiles wryly. “Sure. You think I’d say no?”

“You can say no at any point. If at any moment it feels anything less than wonderful.” I slide my hand down the warm, smooth column of his throat, over the firm muscles of his chest and stomach, and down to his groin to cup him again. Riddick has taught me a tickling motion with my fingertips that he likes me to use on his sac, and I apply it to Hardy, who groans in response. Although they are different men, although the rough play that so excites Riddick is likely only to terrorize my gentle lover, there are some things that please them both.

I learn him slowly. Centimeter by centimeter. Stroke by stroke. He has more sensation below the break, but still appreciates my attentions above it. The more I touch his glans, the more it swells, blood finding its way slowly through the damaged vessels. I note his response. Slow stimulation is the way to bring my poor abused love back to life.

While I touch him, he kisses me. That dark water kiss. I drown in his heat and taste, breaking the surface for air with soft pants, only to be pulled down again. He strokes my throat, my collar, my breasts. His palms are a little rough as he smooths them over my skin. The slight scratching only adds to the sweet sensation. He swirls his fingertips over my aureoles, my nipples. Never squeezing. I will not wear the marks of his fingers tomorrow, but I will carry the memory of this tenderness forever.

 

I wake to movement. Cool air across my skin as the fur is pulled back. I have a moment of sheer panic, remembering the last time the covers were pulled off me. I curl into a ball and clamp my legs together, only to find a strong male thigh already between mine. I push away from the arms enclosing me and open my eyes.

Riddick leans over me, holding back the fur cover. His face is stricken. “Li—”

The fear washes out of me in a hissing tide, helped in its retreat by Hardy’s low murmur, “I’m here. I’ve got you.” His hands find me, reassuring me with his gentle touch.

I relax and reach out of the ball I have curled into. I pat Riddick’s cheek. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

“I just came to get you. What’re you doin’, sleepin’ on the floor?”

“Bed smells like her pain,” Hardy mumbles as he sits up next to me. “I wasn’t sleeping with her in that.”

Riddick blows a breath out through his nose. “Yeah, I’ll get Rea to make us a new bed.”

“After the party,” I say. “She’s doing too much as it is. Join us here, my love.”

“On the floor.”

Hardy slides down into the pillows and furs and draws me back into his arms. “Can’t be the first time you’ve slept on the floor.”

“No, but I figured once I finally got myself a bed, I wouldn’t have to sleep on the fuckin’ floor.”

Despite his grumbling, the Beast climbs into our nest. He fits himself against my back. One of our usual sleeping positions, it gives me comfort, although it may be some time before I am entirely comfortable having him at my back again. He does not slide his thigh between mine the way he usually does, and I wonder if that’s because he saw my defensive movement on waking. 

Hardy turns onto his back and lets me cuddle against his side. When I’m settled, he reaches down, trailing his hand over my thigh, and tugs my knee across his legs. “Better for your back,” he whispers.

“Really?” How does he know what position is best to relieve the strain of the baby’s weight on my back?

“Yeah.” 

He sounds assured and I wonder if Riddick has told him this, too. Is this more of Tomoetu’s “research”? Smiling at the machinations of Furyan men, I rest my head on his shoulder and let myself drift.

I am close to sleep when the two men begin speaking.

“Didn’t tell you what I found out there,” Hardy says.

“I figured you’d get around to it.”

“Antyons were being driven, not drawn. Those central mountains to the south? They’re the territory of something else. Antyons crossed into their range and whatever those things are, they hunted down the whole pride. Barely left anything for us. I don’t know what they are. They come at night. They can fly. They attack from above. We never got a clear look at them, even on infrared.”

“Sounds like that creature from the beach,” I observe sleepily. 

Hardy turns his head so he can kiss my forehead. “Liaden, go to sleep.”

I snort. “So you can talk about me?”

From behind me, Riddick rumbles, “We’re talkin’ about huntin’. Like two gentlemen. Nothin’ you need to listen to.”

“I’m interested in hunting,” I say with a yawn. I am interested, but I’m also very tired.

Hardy kisses my forehead again. “Go to sleep. I’ll show you the vid I got of them in the morning. You can name them.”

“Nightwings.” Another yawn nearly swallows the name. “Rathmoz, in Daixian.”

“Okay, we’ll call them Rathmoz. If you go to sleep. You need your baby sleep.”

“That’s beauty sleep, and you two are going to be the ones up all night with the baby once she’s born, so you might want to take some of your own advice.”

Riddick chuckles. “You still tryin’ to get the last word with her?”

“Losing battle,” Hardy says. “Li, if you go to sleep, when you wake up, Riddick and I’ll take turns kissing you. Right down here.” He rolls his thigh so it presses deep between my legs. “I know you want that, don’t you?”

More than air. His words and the pressure against my groin bring all my unquenched desire flooding back. My center dissolves in a hot dizzing swirl and I close my eyes, not with exhaustion, but in delight. “Only if you’re ready, my heart.”

“I’m ready for that. I was ready for it earlier, but you fell asleep on me,” he murmurs.

Did I? I try to remember. Other than drowning in his kisses for what felt like hours, I have no memory of how I fell asleep.

“She does that to me, too,” Riddick says softly, but his tone is rich with amusement. Then he gives a low laugh.

“What?” Hardy asks.

“I only caught the edge of her thought – she’s nearly asleep – but it had somethin’ to do with Furyans, stamina and stubbornness.”

“I’m not asleep,” I grumble, although I nearly was. How pleasant is it to fall asleep between the two men I love, my body filled with the low hum of desire, knowing they will fulfill my longing when I awake? “And my thought was that the stamina of Furyan men is matched only by their monumental stubbornness.”

It’s Hardy’s turn to chuckle. “Not sure if I should be flattered or insulted.”

“Both,” says Riddick. “Get used to it. An’ if she ever just compliments you, run.”

“I’ll endure anything for a compliment from Liaden,” Hardy whispers, kissing my forehead, then the tip of my nose, then my mouth. “If you go to sleep.”

“Bribing me won’t help,” I breathe. But it must, because my mind is drifting, drifting, and whatever the two men say to each other, I hear no more.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end. Sorry I've been gone so long. I've been writing and when I write, I tend to disappear into a black hole. I've finally finished this beast, so I'm going to post the last three chapters, then go back to writing what I get paid for!
> 
> Thanks to everyone who has followed me on this ride!

When I wake, there’s warmth at my back, and a heavy arm over my belly, which, when I run my fingertips along it, I identify as Riddick’s, by the smoothness of his skin. Hardy has a light furring of dark gold hair on his forearms and chest, where Riddick has none. Riddick’s body is all gleamingly smooth skin over bulging muscle. I smile without opening my eyes, enjoying the contrast between my two lovers.

It’s only when I realize that my second, lightly furred lover, is not in the bed with us that I open my eyes.

Kreon has risen, but the great lens is still shaded, so only a trickle of golden light illuminates the room. It is more than enough to see that the room is empty. The nest beside me is vacant, although the pillows are still warm to the touch. The cover has been tucked in around me. Hardy’s attention to my comfort, even in his absence, makes me smile.

If he has disappeared again, however, I will do more than threaten him with my knife. I will stick it somewhere vital.

“He just went to wash up,” Riddick rumbles, his heavy chest vibrating against my back. “He’ll be back in a minute.”

“Have the two of you gotten any sleep?” I ask.

“Yeah, some. We talked for a while.”

“Of antyons and rathmoz?”

Riddick chuckles. “Some.”

Mostly not, I divine. “And what else?”

“Man-chat. Nothin’ for you to worry about.”

Really. “Then there’s no reason not to tell me.”

“Liaden, fuck, you’re nosy.”

“Correct.”

He blows out a long breath into my hair. “He was worried I’d want him to step off now that I’m better. Now that Shirah can’t fuck with me.”

Yes, I’ve heard this particular insecurity. It’s troubling that my reassurances did not, in fact, reassure him. “And you said?”

“Said I liked havin’ him around. I’m still the Lord Marshal an’ there’ll always be someone gunnin’ for me. Somethin’ happens to me, he’ll be there for you.”

I sit up slowly and turn so I can look down at Riddick, who is sprawled amongst the pillows and furs, his arm under his head, his eyes heavy-lidded, but no longer bruised. “My love,” I say gently. “I think Hardy may want to be valued for himself, rather than as a reserve.”

Riddick shrugs one shoulder. “What d’you want me to say?”

“That you want him to stay with us because you value him. You enjoy his company. Whatever it is that you appreciate about him.”

“I appreciate that he’ll protect you if somethin’ happens to me.”

I tilt my head at him. “I know it’s more than that. So do you. Even if you are resistant to admitting it.”

“I don’t need to admit anythin’, Liaden. I’m not the one who’s fallen for him.”

And I glimpse the pain that lies at the core of his resistance. He has done his work too well. He wanted Hardy to love me, and me to return that love, so that Hardy would protect me, and I would accept Hardy’s protection. His plan has succeeded, but that success brings him no happiness, only jealousy and resentment. “Do you believe that my love for him precludes my love for you?”

Riddick rolls onto his back with a grunt. “Dunnow.”

“Let me tell you what I told him. I believed that love was exclusive. That if I loved him, it must diminish my love for you. But I was wrong. Love is inclusive, and boundless. I love you more, now, today, for loving him than I have ever loved you before.”

He shakes his head. “Li—”

“Are you presuming to dictate my feelings again?” I ask, poking him in the ribs where I know he is ticklish.

He bats my hand away, but the edges of his mouth curve in the beginnings of a smile. “You can’t be in love with two people,” he says, but there is no conviction in his voice. It is almost a question.

“Why not? Can I not love you and our daughter?”

“That’s not the same.”

But it is. It is all love. “You feared it was. This is as empty a fear as that one, my love.”

Riddick stretches up one hand and cups my face. “You believe that, don’t you?”

“With all my heart. I hope that, in time, you come to believe it, too. I hope you come to love him as much as I do. For himself and what he is to you, not because you want him to play a part in your grand design—”

“Uh,” Hardy clears his throat and I turn my head to see him standing in the bathing chamber doorway, his hair standing in wet spikes, a towel around his neck, his glorious nakedness gleaming in the dim gold light. “Am I missing something?”

I turn to him and hold out my hand. “Join us, my heart.”

He moves across the room and I have a moment to admire his predatory grace. Despite his missing toes, he moves like a great cat, perfectly balanced, loose and light on his feet. He sinks to his knees at the edge of the nest, then crawls to us. He’s smiling uncertainly, but his smile widens when I slide my arm around his neck to pull him to me, and then tug us both down across Riddick’s broad chest.

Riddick grunts. “You’re heavier than you look.”

“Then you should stop nagging me to eat,” I say, settling back against him. I refuse to be shy or awkward lying naked on the floor, in a pile of pillows, between my two naked lovers. Or nearly naked. Riddick still wears his briefs and Hardy still has a towel looped around his neck. I intend to divest them both of their cloth in short order.

I take a corner of the towel and rub it through Hardy’s hair. He looks heartbreakingly boyish with his hair wet, his golden scalp peeking through the spikes. “I believe that you offered me a bribe in the night,” I say.

“Did I? I don’t remember that.” His grin tells me he remembers it perfectly. 

“And I suspect that among the many things you two discussed while I was sleeping was how best you might fulfill that offer.”

Hardy tilts his head and looks at Riddick. “Did we? I don’t remember that, either.”

“All I remember us talkin’ about was huntin’.”

Hardy nods. “Hunting.” 

“I see. No discussion of what position you might like me in while you made good on this bribe?” I wriggle back against Riddick’s chest, pull the towel slowly away, toss it aside and slide my arms behind my head so that my breasts rise between us. 

Hardy follows my movements avidly, his eyes gleaming in the golden light. My body responds to that hot gaze. My nipples tighten, and heat spreads across my throat and chest. “Uh,” he says, watching me. “I don’t remember that.”

“No? No discussion of how and where you might like to begin?” I ask coyly.

He rubs his hand across his mouth. “Don’t remember.”

“Do you?” I ask Riddick, taking one arm from behind my head and sliding it down his torso, over all that smooth, glorious muscle. His abdomen flexes under my fingers, the muscles bunching like boulders. When I reach his briefs, I slide my hand across the warm fabric. He shivers when I cup him and groans when I curl my hand over him to tickle his sac with my fingertips. Even through the cloth, through any lingering fears, he’s wonderfully responsive to my touch. “Do you remember, my love?”

“No idea what I’m supposed to be rememberin’,” he grunts.

“Let me remind you.” I find his other hand with mine and bring it to my breast. He kneeds me firmly, his fingers tugging at my nipple, and my body leaps to that rough touch. Hardy’s gentleness is sweet and soothing and wonderful, but my body is attuned to Riddick’s demanding lovemaking. I crave both.

They give me both, until I nearly swoon. How can any woman endure such pleasure? Riddick’s forcefulness. Hardy’s gentleness. Hardy watches Riddick caress me, his eyes darkening. Then Hardy bends to my other breast. He strokes me and rubs his thumb lightly over my nipple. My body arches over Riddick’s, my head lolling. Hardy’s soft lips find the curve of my neck. He kisses his way down my throat, over my Collar, to my breast, where he touches his tongue to my nipple, a brief wet flick that makes me writhe, before he takes my peak in his mouth and begins to gently, so gently, suck.

Riddick, watching, rolls my other nipple between his fingers. He pinches, hard enough to make me moan. Beneath my hand, his phallus pulses and swells. I run my fingertips up to his glans, find the sensitive fold of skin where his head joins his shaft and pinch, returning his fierce fondling.

“Li,” he groans. “Don’t. You know what that does to me.”

Yes, I do. As he’s taught me to delight in his wild lovemaking, he’s also taught me exactly what excites him and when. I massage the sides of his shaft with my thumb and middle finger before pinching again. He jolts under me and his erection swells to strain against his briefs.

Exactly what I wanted to feel.

“Li, I mean it. We agreed this was gonna be for you.”

Did they? During their long discussion of _hunting_? 

“How unfortunate that I was excluded from this conversation,” I purr, rubbing the heel of my hand down his shaft. I find Hardy’s head with my other hand, slide my fingers through his damp hair and close my hand into a fist. Carefully, carefully. I don’t want to frighten my tender lover, particularly when he’s tugging so delicately on my breast with those plush lips. “Perhaps if you had consulted me, you would have discovered that I am unselfish in my pleasure.”

Hardy lifts his head and looks at me. “What does that even mean?”

“It means I would like both of you to enjoy our lovemaking as much as I do.”

Riddick chuckles, his chest bobbing under my back. “Means she wants us to come.”

“Oh.” Hardy returns his attention to my breast. I tighten my fingers in his hair again and he hums his deep, pleased hum.

“Hardy appears to have no objection,” I say to Riddick. “Do you, my love?”

“Maybe. Let’s see how it goes.”

Does he still fear himself, even now that Shirah’s influence over him is broken? I do not know how to rid him of that fear, except by being fearless myself. I slide my hand under his briefs and stroke him boldly, skin on skin.

While he groans, I parse through the elements of our lovemaking that give us the most pleasure. After a moment, I settle on one that I think will prove stimulating for all three of us.

“Hardy,” I cup his jaw to lift him from my breast. “May I move?”

He nods and lifts off me. I shift so I lie along Riddick’s long body. Sweeping my hair out of the way, I turn my head to the side, and slide my hand back down under Riddick’s briefs so my neck and shoulder extend. Hardy runs his hand over the long sweep of skin, across the metal links of my Collar, ending at my breast, following the motion with hot eyes. Perfect.

“That is where I most like to be bitten,” I tell him. “Would you let Riddick show you?”

Hardy nods, his throat working as though he’s having trouble swallowing.

“Liaden, I know what you’re doing,” Riddick demurs, but he has already taken the bait, trailing his fingertips and then his lips down my neck.

“I keep no secrets from you, my love,” I purr, rolling my head so my neck is fully extended. The predator in him will not be able to ignore such vulnerability, and I delight in the success of my ploy when I feel the sharp, wet edge of his teeth in my skin. 

“That hard?” Hardy breathes, watching us.

“Hard enough to leave a mark,” I reassure him. “Hard enough to draw blood if you so desire.”

He does. I can tell by the way his pupils expand. His eyes are so dark, I can barely see any whites. He desires it a great deal, although I don’t know if he’ll let himself go that far this first time.

“I also like to be bitten here,” I say, cupping my breast with my free hand. Honestly, I need an extra pair of hands. The men have four between them, while I only have two, and there is a great deal I would like to touch that I cannot. But I can touch what I most desire, and as Hardy takes my breast and bends his head to me, I snake my hand down between us, rolling my forearm to avoid pressing on my belly, and tickle my fingertips along his silken shaft.

Hardy is tentative at first, just grazing me with his teeth. But my soft moans encourage him and he begins to nip at my skin. Riddick, having bitten me many times, shows no hesitancy as he carves a line of fire down the long cord of my neck. 

I luxuriate in their predatory attentions. Each bite makes my core curl, tighter and tighter. I writhe from the sensations, as an ache spreads through me that I know only one thing will quench.

The thought that I now have two lovers to give me what I most need makes my head spin.

Before I drown in this delicious delirium, I lift my head and whisper to Hardy, “Will you serve as my pillow, my heart?”

He takes a long breath, as though coming up from deep under water, before he releases my captured, marked, burning breast and looks at me. His eyes are as dark, as fey and fevered, as mine must be. “Anything you want,” he says thickly.

“Lie back,” I implore him, and when he does, I lift myself, awkwardly at first, but then with the help of both men, more easily, until I lie stretched along his full length. I wriggle upward until his erection nestles in the cleft of my buttocks. I work myself against him for a moment and feel the drag of skin on skin. “My love,” I say to Riddick, “Would you bring the oil I used on you the other night?” I nod at the drawer under our bed in which we keep a number of our favorite implements.

Riddick crawls out of our nest to retrieve the vial of oil and I watch him, enjoying the rolling of his muscles under all of that smooth golden skin, his economy of movement and predatory grace. When he returns, he also bears a towel, which he spreads on the furs. Hardy lifts his hips and Riddick slides the towel beneath us.

I wriggle back on my warm, muscular pillow and look up at my silver-eyed lover. “Would you like to put the oil on him, my love?”

Riddick and Hardy protest in unison. I smile to myself, confident that they will lose their inhibitions in time, and hold my hand out for the oil. 

As I slick my palm, I lift my knees and place my feet on the floor so I can elevate my hips. Riddick watches, rapt, as I arch upwards, opening myself to him. I touch the oil to myself first. I am already wet, but the oil is warming and will make my secret flesh redden in a way I know entices Riddick. Then I reach under my back to rub the oil up and down Hardy’s shaft. The sounds of pleasure fill my ears: the slide of skin on skin, Riddick’s deep breathing, Hardy’s hum. I stroke Hardy several times to reward his patience and trust. His hum drops so low I feel it all the way through my bones. It makes me shiver with delight. I drop my hips so I can rub against him. He slides easily along the cleft of my buttocks. The sweet friction makes me moan, and I add my own chorus to the swelling song of pleasure.

Although Riddick seems content only to watch, I need more. My body demands more. I hold my oiled hand out to him and when he kneels between Hardy’s legs and leans over me, I run my palm down his wealth of golden skin from breastbone to the waistband of his briefs. He places his hands on the furs to either side of me, holds himself above me, supported on the huge pillars of his arms, and rocks slowly forward until his hard phallus fills my hand.

“My love,” I whisper, looking up at him. His eyes meet mine, moonlight on metal. I watch them darken as I stroke him, the slickness of the oil allowing me to twist my hand around his shaft in the way I know delights him, without tugging too hard on his most delicate skin. He rolls his head in pleasure before dipping in to claim a soft kiss. When he lets me, I turn my head, arch my neck, and find Hardy’s lips to share the taste of Riddick’s kiss.

With my mouth locked to Hardy’s, I push Riddick’s briefs off and guide him between my thighs. He groans, but makes no move to enter me. I rock my hips forward and impale myself of his thick tip.

“Liaden,” he rumbles against my throat. He bites from my jaw to my Collar, a fresh line of fire, as he pushes a different sort of fire slowly, so slowly, all the way to my core.

I keen into Hardy’s mouth. He wraps his arms around me, one hand on my breast, the other cupping my belly, and holds me tight while I writhe. Hardy slows his thrusts between my buttocks. The men match rhythms, and I enter a new realm of sensation. I have never felt so abandoned, so wholly possessed. Riddick sits back, thrusting with just the massive strength of his hips and back, while he takes my hands and guides them behind Hardy’s head. I grasp my lover’s neck, and grip that strong, sweating lifeline as I rock to their shared rhythm. 

Riddick holds himself above me on one arm, and strokes me with the other, his hand gliding over my skin from upraised elbow to breast to the high mount of my stomach and finally to that most sensitive nub of flesh, which he rubs as he strokes all the way out of me and then all the way back in. Pinioned across one lover, impaled by the other, I scream with pleasure.

“That’s it, Liaden,” Riddick growls. He quickens his pace, accelerating into a rhythm I know well, but the sensation is different. He’s not thrusting all the way into me. He’s holding himself back for fear of hurting me again. 

“Yes, yes, my love,” I moan to encourage him.

“Hold her,” Riddick says to Hardy.

Hardy’s hands tighten on me, cradling me as close to him as the soil holds the root. His hips rock beneath me, matching Riddick’s speed. His breath gusts like Furya’s hot wind across my ear. Riddick leans into me, pressing me into Hardy. He pounds into me, but his thrusts are still shallow. Not the complete possession that I crave.

I look up at him. Open my mouth to beg him to abandon his restraint. But being captured between the two men, enveloped in their heat, in the dark wings of their passion, lifts me out of myself. I have a moment where I feel myself open completely. Where they both take me, even though only Riddick is inside me. I soar, vaulting into the heavens, and splinter into bright fragments that fill the room with blue-white light. 

Hardy, unaccustomed to my Collar’s displays, grunts in surprise, then groans, low and loud. I feel his release join the heat slicking my back. Riddick continues for another moment before he stops and presses his face into my neck. He’s not usually silent in his pleasure, but I can barely muster enough thought to wonder about his silence because I’m floating, floating, on a warm, starlit tide. I feel skinless, weightless. Have I ever felt so contented? So fulfilled and so completely at peace with my world? 

I swim up slowly. Riddick still lies against me, panting into my skin. I unwind my arm from behind Hardy’s neck and rub my fingers over his sweat-dampened scalp. “My love,” I say softly.

He grunts. “Yeah.”

I rub my head back against Hardy’s neck in a cloud of my hair. Whisper to him, “My heart, are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m good,” he says. He sounds very relaxed.

Riddick slowly pushes off me, up onto his forearms. He withdraws and the tide of bliss washes away, leaving me feeling strangely dry and empty. “Riddick?”

“I gotta go,” he says roughly. “Hardy’ll take care of you.” He sits back on his heels.

He’s never left me immediately after lovemaking before. “Where are you going?”

“I’m gonna do the legionnaire’s training now, so it don’t interfere with the party tonight.” He straightens the blankets that have bunched around us during our wild movement, and folds a fur over me.

Although he leaves for a worthy reason, it is less pleasing to me than the alternative. “Will I see you later? Before the party?”

“Yeah, I’ll come’n find you. Wanna make sure you eat.”

“You were just complaining about how much I weigh,” I say, hoping to inject a little humor into his darkening mood.

He leans over and kisses my forehead. “You get as big as an eschar, then we’ll talk.”

I scoff at him fondly and brush my fingertips over his cheek. He gives me another chaste kiss before he climbs out of our nest and walks to his Wardrobe to dress. I follow him with my eyes.

“Li?” Hardy whispers, to gain my attention. I shift awkwardly and he helps me, settling me into the nest by his side and then drawing me warm and tight against his chest. “How do I take care of you?”

“Just hold me. Nothing more complicated than that, although Riddick makes it sound like a military maneuver.”

“I can do that.” Hardy grins and cuddles me, running his fingertips up and down my spine on either side of my Collar. “You okay?”

“More than okay.” I trace the bow of his lips with my forefinger. “Thank you, my heart.”

“For what?” He looks down at me, puzzled.

“Trusting me. I know that must have been hard for you.”

Hardy chuckles. “Only one thing that was hard.”

I smile at his jest. “It was very hard.”

“Yeah, it was. You want to clean up?” He rubs his fingertips in the sticky fluid drying on my lower back.

“Yes.”

“Can I give you a bath?”

“I would love that,” I say before I question my own inclination. I have let Riddick bathe me, but only as part of me bathing him, or foreplay. I feel no such limitation with Hardy. He is a different man, and our relationship is different.

We rise leisurely and make our way into the bath, hand-in-hand. I gather the soaps and sponges, but it is Hardy who uses them, drawing me between his legs as he sits behind me in the bath. He washes me slowly, asking about the changes the baby has wrought on my body. He laughs when I complain about my swollen ankles and circles them with two fingers to demonstrate their trimness. I show him how to wash my hair and then let him brush it dry as we sit on the edge of the bath, swaddled in towels. 

“You ever cut this?” he asks, working the brush through a damp hank of hair.

“I trim the ends, but I haven’t cut it since the day I left my family.”

“No wonder it’s so long. Riddick says when he first met you, you wore it up all the time. Why?”

“A concubine reserves her true beauty for her lord,” I say. “But also because Zhylaw preferred it.”

“Zhylaw, he was the Lord Marshal before Riddick, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you were his concubine, but you didn’t, you know—”

I know where he is going with his question. As others, evidently including Vaako, have gone before. “Not with me. He did with his other concubines, but he left me untouched.”

“Don’t understand that.”

“Tomoetu says he enjoyed my innocence.” I shrug. “But the truth is, he did not desire me.” 

For all of the kindly explanations I have been offered, for all the platitudes I told myself while lying alone in my bed, that most simple of truths remains. Zhylaw did not desire me, and although I am grateful that I could give myself first to Riddick, I still feel the faint sting of Zhylaw’s rejection.

“Musta been one cold fucker,” Hardy says.

He was also that. “He is very cold now, since Riddick dispatched him.” I would not share such low humor with Riddick, but with Hardy it feels right. 

Hardy chuckles. “Don’t sound like you miss him much. What’d you say to Riddick, that you realized he didn’t deserve your loyalty?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

Hardy hums deep in his chest before taking another hank of hair to brush. “Why not?”

“He lied. To everyone, about many things. But to me he lied about this.” I rub my temple against Hardy’s cheek. “Physical affection. He told me he was beyond the needs of the body. He had so devoted himself to the Necromonger Faith, that his physical needs had faded. And he promised me that if I held Damalis foremost in my heart, my needs would fade as well. But he lied. He never abstained. He sated those needs every day with his other concubines. While he left me to starve, craving human touch, for four years. What secret delight it must have given him, watching me suffer.”

“Liaden,” Hardy chokes. He puts down the brush. Takes me by the shoulders and turns me to face him. He strokes my face before kissing me. I sink down, down, down into the sweet, dark water of his kiss.

When he lets me surface, he whispers against my lips. “I’ll touch you every second of every day.”

I laugh, feeling the buzz of my breath over his skin. “How is that not asking more than you can give, my heart? What of hunting? Eating? Relieving yourself?”

He smooths my damp hair back from my face. “Don’t care. See, this is why I need to see inside your head. I had no idea you wanted to be touched that bad.”

Riddick sees inside my head, and he touches me a great deal, but touch for Riddick is almost always sexual. Sometimes, I just want to be held, a need I sense that Hardy might be better suited to satisfy than Riddick. 

“Is it not obvious? I’ve asked you to hold me so often it must be a dull refrain.”

“I thought it was ‘cause you were scared. Didn’t know it was because you’d been fucking touch-starved.”

I stroke his freshly-shaven cheek. “I think we’ve both been touch-starved, haven’t we? Me by design and you by choice.”

He presses his forehead against mine. Kisses me again. “I don’t like people. I don’t want ‘em touching me.”

“I understand.” After what has been done to him, he has good cause. “You’re doing very well with me.”

“You’re not other people.” He tucks me tight to his chest and and whispers before he pulls me back down into the dark water of his kiss. “You’re part of me.”

 

It is a little strange, I find, to be awake during the day after becoming used to a nocturnal routine. I grow sleepy at odd moments, hungry at odder ones. I decide the remedy is sunlight, so after a late breakfast with Hardy and reaassurances that I will not pine away from the absence of his touch for an hour while he helps Leto dress the kill from their hunt, I don a gardening shift and head out into Eden to see if I can help with the party preparations.

I am little needed, although there is a great deal to do. Tirea directs over a hundred legionnaires in erecting a silvery cloth pavilion that is nearly as wide as Zibon. I can see she intends for the pavilion to be permanent as it is anchored into Eden’s soil with mighty spikes, each longer than a man’s height, which the legionnaires drive into the ground with massive mallets. The pavilion flaps in Furya’s warm breeze as it rises, but soon grows taut as each spike is driven deep into the ground and ropes pull the cloth over metal supports. 

As the pavilion rises, a deep green shade spreads across the recently turned soil. I step under one metal support and look up. The underside of the pavilion is a vibrant emerald color, patterned with scales like leaves. The light filtering through and reflecting off the cloth creates the illusion of a sunlit, leafy bower.

I turn to Tirea with a wordless exclamation of wonder.

She grins. “Do you like it?”

“I love it. It is marvelous.” I hold my arms out and let the reflected color play across my bare skin. Tirea joins me, giggling. She takes my hands and twirls me around, so the dappled light ripples across my skin and hair.

When we’re done spinning, we stand together and watch the last section of the pavilion rise. Tirea leans her head against my shoulder and yawns.

I _knew_ the party-preparations were too much of her. “Have you gotten any sleep?” I ask.

“I’ll sleep after the party,” she says around another yawn. “Oh, good, here come the chairs.”

Faz leads a platoon of legionnaires, who troop out from Zibon pushing hoversleds full of metal parts. These join piles of stacked tops and table legs, waiting for the pavilion to rise so that they may be assembled in its shade. A few dozen meters to the north, where the wind will carry the smoke over the cliffs instead of back into the pavilion, more legionnaires dig three long trenches. Roasting pits. Chef is still in his kitchen, preparing a plethora of dishes to accompany the barbeque, but several of his assistants direct the legionnaires in the length and depth of the pits.

Beyond their white-apronned forms, there is a field of taruut, undisturbed by the pavilion, through which dozens of Thaniel’s helpers move, harvesting immature cobs selectively, so that some will be left to grow to golden maturity. Further toward the cliff edge, one of Inker’s unlovely water mixers stalks on its spidery legs, watering a stand of sweetips, accidentially showering some of the taruut pickers, who lift their hands into the sunlit spray. 

I feel a tightness in my throat, a prickling behind my eyes. This is Zibon as I imagined it. Not stained by Shirah’s bloody nightmares. This is our new life as I hoped for.

A new life completed by the company of the two men who follow the train of chair-bearing legionnaires. Between them, they push the completed hover bike, which coasts on a cloud of black ash. They are both smiling broadly. Boys with their toy.

That they smile the same way at me does not escape me.

I join them to admire the bike, and accept readily when Riddick offers me a ride. He climbs on first, then reaches back and hands me on to the long seat behind him. Hardy climbs on behind me and wraps his arm around my middle, much to my delight. I feel more secure in his arms, and am glad of that security when Riddick guns the hover bike’s huge engine and we roar off over the tops of the taruut tassels. 

The flight is exhilarating. We probably go no faster than a skimmer, but without the metal enclosure, with the screaming wind in my face, it feels incredibly fast, incredibly free. I recognize the appeal immediately. This is how Riddick wants to feel all the time and who could blame him? The speed, the freedom, are utterly intoxicating. I laugh with delight, lean against Riddick’s back and feel him chuckle with me.

The last of the fields whips by below us; Riddick leans the hover bike toward the Anzoa to follow its twisting course through the jungle. Our passage over the tops of trees stirs clouds of roosting birds. Riddick turns from the Anzoa’s main course to follow a tributary that runs west, through foothills where the jungle thins to rolling, grassy plains where herds of the spotted, eight-legged herbivores the original settlers called _lannuias_ dash away from the bike’s roar. Although not as rich as antyon meat, the lannuias herds provided the first colonists with a steady protein source. The herbivores run extremely fast on their spindly legs, and I wonder how any predator could catch them.

Beyond the foothills, thin needles of stone rise into a ridge of mountains. These are not the rathmoz’s territory, but rather the Hanging Stelae, described to such effect by the Furyan poet Nyeku that I have heard of them even across-sector on Tarenge. The stone spires are strangely shaped, thicker at the top than at the base, wreathed in mist, so they seem to hover in the air. I know from Nyeku’s poetry that their shapes arise from fingers of lonzgorite magma pushed up through tubes of softer stone. But that does not explain their fantastical shapes. I know it is the altitude, not magic, which wraps them in mist. But like the poet, I forget geology and simply lose myself in their unearthly beauty. 

Riddick zooms between them expertly. He breaks through layers of mist, banking when the next stelae appears just a meter from the bike’s nose. He squeezes the bike through gaps so tight that my hair, flapping like ravens’ wings in the hot breeze, slaps the pitted, moss-dotted sides of the stones as we veer. He weaves effortlessly in and out and around the stones, offering a new, spectacular vista with every turn, until we burst between two stelae and soar over the plains again, above a startled group of lannuias who bolt through the grass below.

I turn my head and lay my cheek against Riddick’s massive shoulder so I can watch the stelae recede behind us. Hardy scoops my hair to one side, leans in and kisses my neck. I smile at him, happy to have shared this with him, with both my men. I resolve to drag them away from Zibon more often, to see Furya’s wonders. Or perhaps it is only myself that I need to drag away. Both Riddick and Hardy have seen the Hanging Stelae before. I haven’t because my imagined obligations have kept me within Zibon’s extended walls. I will not be confined, not by my condition, not by my obligations, not by my own imagination. I will roam this planet with my men, my Furyan hunters. I will remember what I once was, the skills my mother taught me. I will pass those skills down to my children. I will glory in the freedom that Riddick so craves, that is the heart and soul of every Furyan. I will take that ferocity back into my own soul and become a hunter of this world. A new Furyan.

I look at Hardy, still holding back the wind-whipped curtain of my hair. Although he cannot see into my mind, he must see my thoughts in my eyes. He leans in again, rubs my nose with his, then kisses me, long and deep, despite the bike’s bumpy flight. I lap the wild soul of Furya from his tongue.

Riddick sets the bike down between the edge of the finished pavilion and the taruut field. Several legionnaires come to greet us and I leave the group to admire the bike. I drift into the pavilion again to see if there is anything I might do to help. After just a moment, I find Hardy at my elbow. I smile up at him and lean into his warm, firm side when he puts his arm around me.

“Didn’t want you to starve,” he whispers into my ear.

“I am in less and less danger with you near, my heart.”

As we watch, the legionnaires set the last of the chairs around the dozen assembled tables. Tirea and the other Weavers move between them, spreading the tables with cloths the same silvery color as the pavilion’s top. Chef’s assistants set the tables with trenchers and cutlery that I pray has been appropriated from the dining hall and not specially made for the occasion by the overworked Weavers. 

Hardy steers me to an area beyond a double-row of serving tables that has been left clear. Presumably for dancing. In the empty space, Hardy takes my hand and guides me through a slow twirl under his arm. “Can’t believe you did this for me,” he says.

“I can’t believe you lied about not being able to dance,” I retort with mock indignation.

“Didn’t lie. Those’re my moves. Right there.” He pulls me back into his arms, settles his hands in my lower back in a way that makes everything from my heart to my belly tighten, and sways smoothly. 

“Such a liar,” I say, sliding my arms around his neck. “What else have you lied to me about?”

He stops moving and looks down at me. “Nothing.”

He’s still too sensitive for such teasing. “My heart, it was a joke.”

“Oh, okay.” He picks up his rhythm again and guides me through several sliding steps. “Not sure with you.”

I stretch up and kiss him lightly, not wanting to disrupt his rhythm. He chases my mouth as I drop back onto my heels and claims a longer, deeper kiss that makes my toes curl. “Be secure in my affections, my heart.”

He tightens his arms around me and sways with me. “’Cause once you love someone, you love them forever?”

“Yes.”

He gives me one of his rare and beautiful smiles and I wonder if he is coming to believe in my love. “Who was your first?”

“My first love? I will tell you if you tell me of yours,” I say, requiring reassurance that Hardy will not hide his past from me the way Riddick does. Hardy is a different man, and I hope I already know the worst of his history. But I will not make the same mistake with Hardy that I did with Riddick. Not after it so nearly undid us. When Hardy nods, I continue, “My first love was Hanuel, a hunter of my tribe. He was much older, and an accomplished hunter. Looking back, I’m sure I was a great annoyance to him. He called me his _shelpas_. That’s a little animal that nips at your heels. But he was always very kind to me, and when he asked me to be his mate, I thought I would die of happiness.”

“What happened?”

“We were handfasted when I was twelve and would have mated when I made my first kill. But my parents died and I went to serve the Feletis in the capital to hold my family’s land pledge instead. I had only a few months left on my bond, before I would have returned to him, when the Necromongers came. Hanuel and the rest of my tribe were killed in the invasion.”

“He died before you saw him again?” At my nod, Hardy kisses my forehead. “Who was the second?”

“Riddick.”

He looks down at me quizzically.

“I told you, I love rarely—”

“But immoderately. Yeah, I like that.”

“Tell me yours.”

“Okay. She wasn’t really my first love. She was my first girl, though. She’s how I learned this.” He reaches up, takes my hand and guides me through another twirl before pulling me back into his arms. “Orphanage they put me in after my mother died, they had a dance every six. They tried to teach us to dance right, you know, the steps with the funny names. But I hated everything they tried to teach us. I wouldn’t learn.” 

I smile up at him fondly, recognizing that angry, defiant boy in the man before me. 

“They got us together with a school for rich kids,” he continues. “Socializing, they called it. I hated it. Stood in a corner. Then this rich girl came over and told me that if I could dance, she’d dance with me. I learned this.” He twirls me again. “So I could dance with her.”

“And she was your first girl?” I know little of the social mores on other planets, but I would have thought that a love affair between a privileged girl and orphaned boy would have been quickly doomed.

“Yeah. Every other week, we’d see each other at the dances. I was already sneaking out at night. Exploring the city. Hunting. After a while, I told her and she said she’d turn me in if I didn’t take her with me, so I did. Took her everywhere. Taught her to hunt. Made nests for us all over the city.”

“What happened?” Surely a rich girl sneaking out at night could not go unnoticed for long.

Hardy shrugs. “She liked it for a while. But she didn’t like killing things, and she wouldn’t eat anything we caught. I hated wasting meat. We argued about it. She didn’t like getting dirty, or breaking her nails.” He takes my hand and rubs his thumb over my fingernails, trimmed short so I can garden. “After a while, she wouldn’t hunt with me, so I only took her with me on the nights I didn’t hunt. Then she didn’t want to come with me even on those nights. I guess she got bored.”

Or realized she could not tame my wild Furyan hunter.

“Long time later, I saw her, on the street. She was dressed up like you Necros dress. Fancy, with the gold and the hair. On the arm of a fat old rich man. She didn’t look happy. Had this real sour expression on her face. They were arguing.”

“Fate,” I say. In case her rejection still stings, I add, “She wasn’t meant for you.”

“Too good for me, you mean.”

“No, my heart, wrong for you. She was a songbird. She wanted you to admire her voice and her plumage, but the predator in you frightened her. So she found a fat old tomcat to admire her, who put her in a gilded cage. But like all birds, she still longed for freedom. She will never be happy in that cage.”

“I wouldn’t have caged her.”

“I know you wouldn’t. You’re a hunter. You understand the need for freedom.”

He stops swaying and frames my face with his hands. “I won’t cage you either, Li.”

“I know you won’t.” Nor would I let him. “And I am no songbird.”

“You sing like one, though,” Riddick says. 

I glance over and find Riddick leaning against a serving table, watching us. I take Hardy’s hand and lead him over. “We were discussing our first loves,” I say.

“I heard. You didn’t tell him about those bark letters your fiancée used to send you.” 

When Hardy raises an eyebrow, I explain, “Daixians eschew technology, so Hanuel wrote to me on strips of bark. One letter every month of my service.”

“He wrote her poetry,” Riddick says. “When she was a kid, it was sweet stuff. Birds. Flowers. Comparin’ her eyes to clouds, that kinda thing. But by the time she grew up, it was all about how he was gonna fuck her. Dirty old man.”

“Hanuel was two years younger than you,” I point out, although I do not dispute the licentiousness of Hanuel’s love letters.

“Like I said, dirty old man.”

Hardy shakes his head. “When we’re alone, read me some. Who was your first, Riddick?”

I hold my breath, both because I do not know how Riddick will react to Hardy’s question, and because of the catalog of dead women I saw in his mind. One of them must have been his first love. Perhaps the girl-child shot in the chest? Or the tiny redhead whose body lay broken on stones? 

“Liaden,” Riddick says.

He holds his arms out and I flow into them.

Hardy grunts. “You just said that to score points.”

I shoot Hardy a narrow glare. If everything devolves into a competition for my favor, I will strangle them both.

“Mostly I said it ‘cause she said I was her second, instead of her other Lord Marshal.” He looks down at me, and his expression is still grimmer than I would like. “But it’s also the truth.”

“I never loved Zhylaw,” I say. “I revered him as Lord Marshal. But I never loved him as a man.” In large part because he never let me.

“I know.” He kisses the top of my head. “I know you’ve seen the women in my head. I liked them. Admired some of them. Enjoyed the ones that let me fuck them. But love wasn’t ever part of the equation.”

“Not much time for it when you’re just trying to survive,” Hardy acknowledges.

Riddick cups the back of my head and looks down into my eyes. “Liaden’s the only one I’ve trusted enough.”

I slide my free arm around his neck and fold my other arm against my side to draw Hardy into our circle. “I strive to be worthy of your love every day. Now my two wonderful men, would you come back to Zibon with me? I have need of your strong hands.”

Hardy smacks the Riddick on the shoulder. “Pretty sure you never mentioned how manipulative she is.”

“Told you she’d have you wrapped around her finger from the first kiss.” 

Hardy nudges between us to claim a kiss from me. I smile up at him, pleased he feels comfortable enough to be so bold, even if this still has the overtones of competition. “Happened long before that,” he says against my lips.

Riddick pushes back between us. “Where’s mine?”

Hardy places his palm over Riddick’s face. “Fuck off.”

Laughing, I take their hands and lead them back toward Zibon.

 

I have no illusions that Riddick will have time, once we’ve returned to the Habitable, to help me with floral arranging. So I am unsurprised, and undismayed, when Daray catches us as we head to botanics and coralls Riddick toward the command center. Riddick glances back at me; I give him a forgiving wave. Hardy wraps his arm around me, pulls me tight against his side and nuzzles my hair, all the while looking over his shoulder at Riddick, who scowls at him.

Once Riddick and Daray are out of sight, I nudge Hardy. “What was that?”

“Thought you might be feeling touch-starved.”

Since I have been touching him, or Riddick, or both of them, almost continuously for the last hour, I find that hard to believe. “I would accuse you of lying if you hadn’t reacted so badly the last time. Tell me the whole truth.”

“Okay. It don’t hurt to remind him that I get to spend time with you while he’s Lord Marshal-ing.”

“And what do you hope to accomplish with this reminder?”

Hardy shrugs.

“Hardy?!” I ask, my tone rising.

“He’s feeling bad about this morning. He’s thinking he pushed you into it when you weren’t ready—” At my exclamation of frustration, Hardy holds up his hand. “I’m just telling you what he thinks.”

“How do you know this?” If he says Furyan intuition, I will batter both of them.

“He told me. While we were taking his bike out to your garden.” 

I control a snarl. They _desperately_ need to find topics of conversation other than me. 

“He wants to wait a couple of days before we do anything again,” Hardy says. “Make sure you’re really okay. Figured I’d remind him of what he’s missing.”

I think back. Riddick’s behavior this morning was more than odd. I was so deeply fulfilled by our lovemaking, and so elated by Hardy’s participation and attentions afterwards, that I did not reflect on Riddick’s actions as I should have. Now I see the truth. He did not allow himself release as punishment. He left me immediately to deny himself any solace. He has been brooding over it since then, re-casting the encounter in his mind into something it wasn’t.

“You’re quite right,” I say. “Thank you, my heart. You’re exactly right. If he’s allowed his way, he’ll draw into a cocoon of remorse. I’ve seen him do it before, when he did something he regretted.” I stretch up and touch my mouth to his. “Please keep doing exactly what you’re doing.”

He catches me by the waist, takes us a few steps out of our way into a quieter corridor and presses me against the wall for a deep, sweet kiss. When we come up for air, he rubs his nose against mine. “I’m not just doing it for him.”

“You’re doing it for us.” I cup his cheek. 

He chuckles. “Liaden, I ain’t as unselfish as you. I’m doing it for me. I don’t want to wait. Every time I touch you, feels better. I want more. I want everything, all of it, the way we should be.” He catches my mouth for another kiss. “Mmm, I would wait, if you needed me to. But I trust you to tell me if you need to stop.”

“Thank you for that,” I say, feeling a band around my heart unclench. Riddick says he trusts me, but he only does to a point. He doesn’t trust me to tell him _no_ , because I never have, no matter how rough and wild our lovemaking has become. I’ve always enjoyed it, until yesterday. “I don’t suppose you could convince Riddick to extend me the same trust?”

“It’s himself he don’t trust. Not you.”

“That’s kind, but not entirely true.” As he ruptured my deep trust, he ruptured his own. “He doesn’t trust himself not to hurt me. He doesn’t trust me to stop him before he does.” I look down the spiral of that distrust and see the source of his despair. “We need you, my heart. More than you could know.”

He rubs noses with me again. “Nice to be needed.”

“I need you to help me with the centerpieces, too,” I say, remembering the task that brought us to this part of Zibon.

Hardy chuckles. “Never been needed so much.” He releases me and nods towards the main hallway. “Show me what you need.”

 

In botanics, we collect a hoversled, beakers, gloves and clippers. Then we head down to my garden, with a stop in the sanctum to retrieve my treasures from the beach. In my garden, I direct Hardy to part of the streambed, past Tihamner’s nettles, where purple lilies from Jeranda flower along the bank. I picked the lilies because of their unusual color: a deep, royal purple. The female lilies have white centers, to attract pollinators, while the male flowers have showy white spots. Although they are a dramatic addition to my garden, they have proven difficult to cultivate, in no small part because they grow to a truly prodigious size, double my height, and because their stems calcify as the plants mature, making them very hard to cut back.

Hardy sets to culling lilies with a will, taking the stems’ hardness as a personal affront. He cuts great armfuls and stacks them on the hoversled until I tell him we have more than enough. I lay several bundles of greens that I have cut while he’s been battling the lilies on the hoversled. Then I take him to the white Caprune beds.

We don gloves and I show him how to cut the Caprunes without damaging the stems or, more importantly, pricking himself. There are few open blooms, but many buds and in my mind’s eye, I envision how they will look next to the showy lilies. Elegant, I think.

We leave the beds stripped nearly as empty as after the Furyans’ occupation, but I am pleased rather than tearful. Other than the initial impulse, I have given little to the party. It feels right to contribute part of the garden I love so much.

I guide the hoversled down to the river, fill the beakers with water, and then sit next to Hardy on the bank, with our feet danging in the cool water, while I assemble the centerpieces. Hardy proves adept at paring thorns off the Caprunes so that neither I nor any of our guests will suffer their sting. He hands me each de-thorned rosebud, which I tuck into the shells after putting in a little water and a sheaf of lilies and greens. The Caprunes glow like pearls against the velvet purple of the lilies and the bright green leaves. I am extremely pleased with the effect and when I have assembled two dozen such arrangements, strip off my gloves, lie down with my head in Hardy’s lap and smile up at him. “Thank you for fulfilling my needs so excellently.”

He grins at me. “Any other needs you’d like me to fill?”

“What would you say to a late luncheon and a nap?” Although it is only mid-afternoon, I am hungry and sleepy. I do not want to be too tired to enjoy the party.

His grin widens, showing his missing tooth, which makes me smile. I find his small imperfections so endearing. “We napping, or making out?”

“Both,” I say.


	30. Chapter 30

We deliver the centerpieces to Tirea, which earns me an exuberant hug, although the Master Weaver looks ready to drop. She also tries to hug Hardy, who steps back warily. I interpose myself quickly between them, understanding how little he likes to be touched by others.

As I take my Furyan hunter’s hand to lead him back to the Habitable, and he gives me one of his rare, full smiles, the fact that he saves that smile for me, and that I am the only one he wants to touch him, fills me with joy. We stroll back to Zibon with our arms around each other, my head on his shoulder, my heart so full it should burst. 

Riddick does not join us for our mid-afternoon repast, and when I enquire of Chef, who looks surprisingly relaxed, given the chaotic bustle around him, I learn that Riddick has eaten nothing since our last meal together. I ask for a plate of Furyan fare, which I take to the command center. Riddick stands in a tight cluster with his commanders, examining an extrusion map that shows a mountain range. I do not wish to disturb them and leave the plate quietly on a table. As I leave, I see Daray retrieve the plate and hand it to Riddick, who nods but does not look up.

When I rejoin Hardy, who is sitting with Leto and several other legionnaires I do not know, I ask him quietly, “Do the rathmoz pose a threat to us?”

Hardy shrugs. “If we go into their territory, sure.”

“Deadly fuckers,” Leto adds. “Pardon my language, Lady Marshal.”

“I have heard that word before,” I say mildly. “Do we need to go into their territory?”

“There’s plains on the far side of the mountains. Full of those spotty things we saw from the bike. That’s why the antyons were crossing the mountains. Going ‘round on foot would take a long time. Weeks. In a skimmer, though, a day, two at most.” Hardy shrugs. “I’d leave them be, if it was up to me. Why?”

“I just wondered,” I say, not wanting to give him a reason to be at odds with Riddick, when I don’t know Riddick’s plans with any certainty, or even whether the mountains I saw him examining are the rathmoz’s territory.

“Tell you something,” Leto says. “I’d like to figure out how they move so quiet. And why we barely got any heat signature off them.”

“They don’t show up on infrared?” One of the other legionnaires asks.

Hardy and Leto shake their heads. “A flicker,” Hardy says. “I got some vid of them, but all you can see is a blur. It’s like they shed heat off the edges of their wings, so their bodies are the same temp. as the air.”

Another legionnaire, Hewl, I remember from meeting him before, gives a low whistle. “That’s gonna make them hard to kill.”

“Also means that whatever their main prey is, can see heat,” Hardy says. “They loved those antyons, but I’m betting they were a delicacy. Whatever rathmoz usually eat, we ain't seen it yet.”

Remembering the sand worm on the beach, I offer, “It could be subterranean.” When I get several curious looks, I clarify. “It could live underground.”

“That’d explain the heat sense,” Hardy says. “Lots of burrowing animals don’t have much in the way of eyes.”

The legionnaires share nods, but several of them still look at me curiously. I become uncomfortable with their regard and study my half-finished meal.

Hardy runs his hand up my back reassuringly. “Liaden’s Daixian,” he says.

“Cannibals,” one of the legionnaires says.

“Hunters,” I say, without looking up. “We do not discriminate in our prey.”

“I was born on Cyrfeu,” one of the legionnaires offers. I look up and find him watching me, but not with revulsion. It is the legionnaire with the y-shaped scar on his cheek. He is one of the ones who met my eye after I stopped the battle between Hardy and Riddick. “Flesh is flesh.”

Daixians have a very similar saying, which I give back to him. “Meat is meat.”

“Better not try to eat me, Tykkas.” The legionnaire sitting beside him knocks Tykkas with his shoulder.

“Pig, no one would want to eat you. You’d taste worse than week-old Lowie,” Tykkas fires back, to chuckles around the table.

“Smell worse than that already,” Hewl grumbles, which sets off a general round of ribbing. 

Since my birthpeople’s penchant for human flesh seems forgotten, I return to my meal.

“Lady Marshal, tell them you wouldn’t mind eating me,” Pig finally implores after enduring several minutes of the other legionnaires’ teasing.

Hardy roars with laughter, the loudest sound I have heard him make. I cover my mouth, trying not to laugh at Pig’s expense, but fail at the attempt. Tykkas cuffs the back of Pig’s head. “You idiot.”

“I’m very sorry, Pig,” I say. “Daixians only eat their enemies.”

“She don’t want you, either,” one of the legionnaires says, to a renewed round of laughter.

“Did you really used to eat people, Lady Marshal?” Pig asks.

“Yes, Pig. But even then I liked _bluemouk_ better.” I hold up my fork, with the last bite of my lunch speared on the tynes. “These days I far prefer antyon.”

“That’s the real reason she likes you, Hardy,” Leto says. “You keep bringing home the antyon.”

Hardy glances at me and winks. I smile repressively at him, not sure the topic of our relationship is a desireable one to broach amongst a group of legionnaires.

“Lady Marshal,” Pig says. “Will you marry Hardy, too?”

Tykkas cuffs Pig again. “Shut up.”

Pig looks bewildered, and I gather he is a natural buffoon, rather than a malicious joker.

“Would you like me to?” I ask gently. Hardy slides his arm around my waist, silently giving me his support, very much the way Riddick does when I face any social challenge.

“Yeah, I liked your wedding. And now we’re having a party to celebrate. If you marry Hardy, can we have another party?”

A buffoon, but harmless. “I’ll ask the Lord Marshal.”

Pig’s long face falls. “Don’t tell him it was my idea.”

No, I can’t imagine Riddick has much time for the legionnaire. I turn my gaze to Tykkas, whom I suspect Riddick has a great deal of time for. “Tykkas, do you think we should have another party?”

“Yes, Lady Marshal. It’s why we came here, isn’t it?” Tykkas glances around at his fellow legionnaires. Shrugs. “It’s why I came. UnderVerse never held much promise for me. Life without pain? Life _is_ pain. But life’s pleasure, too. Purifiers never mentioned that, did they? Giving up the pain, we’d be giving up the pleasure. I feel alive here.” He takes a deep breath, his massive chest rising. He grins, a grin that his scarred cheek renders hideous, but it is also beautiful. “First time I’ve felt alive since my mate died.”

I return his grin. “I feel alive here, too.”

Tykkas’ blue eyes drop to the curve of my belly where it crests the tabletop, then rise to my face. “That’s what I’m celebrating.”

“I will happily celebrate that with you,” I say, pleased that he finds my pregnancy worth celebrating rather than the heresy that Vaako still sees when he looks at me.

"That’s settled then,” Leto says. “Parties’ll be a regular thing.”

Before I can protest that Riddick’s approval is required, Hardy says, “Better find us some more antyons then. Every single one we brought back’s getting roasted tonight.”

“Really?” I ask, a little surprised, since the roasting pits didn’t look that big. “How many did you bring back?”

“Nine adults and two brown-spots. That’s the moult they go through right before adulthood,” Hardy answers. 

Eleven in one night. I have no idea how many antyons roam Furya, but knowing a little about predator-prey ratios, I can see Zibon’s collective appetite quickly driving them to extinction. “We’ll have to start farming them,” I say.

That gets a laugh all around the table.

“Can you see that?” Leto asks Hardy.

Hardy shakes his head. “I’m not gonna be the one that cleans out their pens. But Li’s right. When we first came, they were everywhere. Now we gotta fly a day past the shock wall before we spot one.”

“True,” Leto admits. “So what do we do?”

Hardy gives me a sly glance. “Take a nap. Think about it.”

I hide my smile in my napkin.

 

We do very little thinking, very little talking, but a great deal of kissing, when we return to the sanctum. Nazya has tidied up the nest we left on the floor, and remade the bed. Hardy does not object to sleeping on it and I wonder if that’s because the smell of my pain has faded, or whether the poor overworked Weavers have already replaced the mattress.

I fall asleep on Hardy again. He likes the full weight of my body on his, just like Riddick, and although the pressure on my belly is not wholly comfortable, I am tired enough that I drift off anyway. I’m aware of it this time, as each kiss becomes slower and sleepier. It is an utterly delightful way to fall asleep, and I resolve to do it often, with both of my lovers, particularly once the inconvenience of my swollen belly is out of the way.

When I wake, I’m lying on my side, with my head pillowed on a firm male arm. I’m very warm, even though I’m naked and only covered by a silken sheet. Heat from the men on either side of me blankets me and I lie for several moments enjoying that heat, the weight of their bodies against mine, and their deep voices, for once talking about something other than me.

“Farming them ain’t the worst idea,” Hardy says to Riddick.

“No, it’s not,” Riddick replies slowly and I can tell he’s turning over possibilities, even without opening my eyes. “For now, there are plenty on the other islands, we cull all of the ones here.”

“Yeah, but we both know there’s a natural balance and if we clear them all off this island, it’ll fuck up the, whatever you call it.”

“Ecosystem,” I supply.

“Fuck, Liaden, I didn’t even feel you wake up,” Riddick says from where he’s lying behind me.

“How long you been awake?” Hardy asks, and there is an edge to his voice that tells me they have been talking about me after all.

“If I tell you, will you tell me what you’ve been discussing?”

“Hunting,” Hardy says a beat before Riddick says, “Antyons.”

“You’re both terrible liars,” I say fondly. “Remind me to pair you the next time we play Quadrangle. Vaako and I will decimate you.”

Riddick chuckles. “That’s that game I was tellin’ you about,” he says to Hardy. “Whatever you do, don’t play her at strip-Quadrangle. Worst hour of my life.”

“I agreed that you could climax if you sacrificed your field marshal,” I remind him around a yawn. “It’s not my fault that you decided winning was more important. I enjoyed the game a great deal.”

“Nearly killed me,” Riddick says.

“You say that about many of our games, and yet here you are, continuing to play them.”

“Not tonight,” he mumbles.

I roll over and pin him to the bed with my hands on his elbows. He blinks up at me in surprise. “Yes, tonight. And all the nights to come.”

“Liaden—” he begins.

“I will not hear your protests,” I tell him. “You have taught my body to expect satisfaction several times a day. Now you deny me. I will not tolerate it.”

Riddick turns his head to look at Hardy and raises an eyebrow. “What was I telling you?”

Hardy chuckles and rubs his palm over my bare shoulder. “I’m with her on this, so you know.”

“Great. I didn’t say you could join us so you two could gang up on me.”

“You gave Hardy _permission_?” I ask archly.

Recognizing a trap, Riddick grimaces. “Not like that.”

“Kinda was,” Hardy says. When Riddick glares at him, he shrugs. “You said you’d share Liaden with me if she said _yes_. I never got a chance to ask her straight out like I was going to, but we both know what her answer is. Now you’re saying _not yet_ , ‘cause you think she’s not ready. She’s the one who should be saying that if she needs to, and she ain’t.”

“She never does,” Riddick says. At my snarl, he lifts both eyebrows, but at least he looks at me. “You never do.”

“I have no need to. No desire to. I want to be with you, with both of you. Now. Tonight. Tomorrow. You introduced me to a new heaven of sensation this morning and now you deny it to me. I won’t have it.”

“So fuckin’ bossy,” he says, but his mouth curves in the beginnings of a smile. 

“Then we are agreed?” I demand.

He flexes his arms under my hands. “Get off.”

Knowing when I’ve pushed him far enough, I sit back and free his arms. He wraps them around my waist and pulls me down to him. I cuddle against his broad, warm chest.

“You really ready? Don’t say yes ‘cause you think it’s what I want to hear.”

“I’m really ready,” I say, rubbing my cheek against his chest. “I want to put what happened behind us and go back to the way things were.”

“Sometimes you can’t go back.”

Is that his fear? “Then let’s go forward. The three of us. You said there was nothing we couldn’t face together. I’m ready, and I will take it very badly if you deny me out of some misguided altruism—“

“Liaden—”

“My mind and heart are open to you, my love. Look within me, and tell me that I’m wrong.” 

I feel him ruffle through my thoughts. I hide nothing. I simply let him see how much I want him. How much I want both of them. He sighs. “Tonight, after the party,” he says. “I promise.”

Since the party must be only an hour or two away, I agree. But to remind him, as Hardy suggested, of what he’s delaying, I say, “Tonight then, after the party, I would like to take Hardy in my mouth, while you fill me.”

Hardy makes a small choking noise. I glance at him anxiously, brushing my hair aside. When I can see his face, I relax. There is only desire there, not fear.

“Yeah, okay,” Riddick says. Then he chuckles. “I’ve thought about this . . . there’s a position I wanna try, think you’ll both like.”

“Describe it,” I demand.

“Bossy, bossy, bossy. You know I’m gonna spank that outta you, Liaden.”

Will he? Will he return not only to our lovemaking but also to our rougher play? I wriggle up so I can bite the fresh scar on the underside of his jaw. “I look forward to it. Now tell me.”

“No.” He rolls me off, into Hardy’s arms, and climbs out of the bed. He walks away, towards the door to the bathing chamber, but not before I see his body’s prominent arousal. “I’ll just say your ass ain’t gonna be the only sore spot when it’s over,” he says over his shoulder.

I watch him go until the door snicks shut behind him. Hardy strokes my hair in silence for a moment, before he asks, “You really let him spank you?”

“Yes,” I say softly, unsure of whether this will be too much for my scarred love. “It’s just a game.”

“Biting. Spanking. There anything you won’t let him do?”

“We won’t do anything that makes you uncomfortable.”

“I’m getting more and more comfortable all the time.” He trails his fingers down my back. When he reaches the top of my buttock, he rests his fingers there, brushing my skin, before moving down to cup the soft curve. “Let’s say I watch this time, but next time I join in?”

A toe-curling thrill runs through me at the notion. The only thing more exciting than having Hardy watch us play will be having him participate. “That would be wonderful, my heart.”

He hums his deep hum of contentment. “Got all kinds of reasons to look forward to tonight now.”

 

How much can change in the course of a day. Our last bath was filled with tension, regret and remorse. Today, both men are wholly relaxed. After Hardy settles himself in the tub, Riddick stretches out one leg and lets his foot lap over Hardy’s ankle. Hardy doesn’t even open his eyes. They’re both nearly silent as I bathe them. But there is no heaviness to this silence. I wash away the sweat of the day, not blood.

_Such_ a difference from our last bath. 

When I finish, I kiss them in turn, Riddick, then Hardy, to let them know how much I appreciate the difference, and how much I am looking forward to tonight.

I remain in the bath for a few minutes after they depart in their towels, tidying away the bathing implements and drying the ends of my hair. When I return to the sanctum, I hear their voices from Riddick’s wardrobe. For once, they are not discussing me. In fact, they seem to be arguing over clothes.

“It’s too matchy,” Hardy says. “Besides, if I spill something on this, it won’t show.”

“Yeah, but the blue looks better with Liaden’s dress. Wear the blue.”

I put my hand over my mouth to keep from giggling. Perhaps we need no further ceremony; they already bicker like an old married couple. And how light does it make my heart to hear them return to their bandying? 

In my dressing chamber, I find a new gown laid neatly over my chair. I shake my head at the sight. Poor Tirea. No wonder she’s exhausted.

As I pick up the dress, I hear Riddick say, “She’s found it.”

“Think she’ll let us watch this time?” Hardy asks.

I turn with the dress in my arms to see the two men peering across the sanctum at me. I arch an eyebrow. I bathed them unclothed and it occasioned no comment, but as soon as I threaten to cover my nakedness, I’m the subject of doubly disconcerting interest. “I’m still not a prize heifer,” I tell them.

“That’d be a _no_ , then,” Hardy says. He has two leather vests in hand, one black, one deep midnight blue.

“Correct,” I tell him. “And I vote for the blue.”

“You only get a vote if you let us watch.” Hardy winks at me.

“I was naked in the bath with you less than ten minutes ago. Nothing about my body has changed since then. I cannot imagine the possible allure of watching me dress.”

“Breasts,” Riddick says succinctly.

I roll my eyes at him and turn my back on the two men. If they are content to delay our mutual pleasure until after the party, then they can wait to see my breasts until then, too. I slowly drop the towel I’m wearing, baring my back and buttocks.

The change in their breathing is audible all the way across the sanctum.

There are two pieces to Tirea’s latest creation: a tooled leather halter with fluttering sleeves, and a long skirt. I draw on the skirt first, stepping into it and pulling it up my legs. The waist of the skirt is stiffened silk, clinging around my hips and baring my belly. I sense Riddick’s hand in the design. It ripples down to my ankles, the same deep midnight blue as Hardy’s vest, dotted with tiny crystals that catch the light and wink like stars. 

I twirl so the silk bells around my legs. Beautiful, and perfect for dancing. 

I end up facing the men. I cup my hands modestly over my breasts and pose for a moment, letting them admire Tirea’s handiwork, or whatever it is they are admiring with their hot and gleaming eyes, before I turn my back again and pick up the halter.

There are a great many small leather straps, which remind me of the witch’s robe I’d intended to wear tonight. The straps cross my chest and back, attached asymmetrically from a point on my left shoulder, leaving a great deal of skin exposed. Soft cups of midnight blue silk cover my breasts. Half-sleeves, fluttering and intricately slashed, hang from wrist to elbow and attach to the halter with a pair of straps that run from elbow to shoulder.

A witch’s ball-gown, I decide, as I fasten the halter. The robe of a midnight enchantress, who revels among the taruut groves with her lovers. 

I turn back to my men to let them see the full effect.

I find them standing in the doorway of my dressing chamber, less than a meter away. As soon as I turn to them, they move to me. Riddick to my front, taking my hands and drawing my arms around his neck. Hardy to my back, running his hands over the straps, following the path of his fingers with his warm, soft lips. 

“Beautiful,” Riddick says, looking down at me, his eyes gleaming brighter than iridium.

“It is,” I agree. “Thank you very much for it, although I hate to think of how hard Tirea has been working.”

“She volunteered. Told me it had to be green or midnight blue. I’m not a big fan of green. And it’s you that’s beautiful, not the dress.”

I smile up at him. “I feel beautiful in it.”

“You look beautiful,” Hardy says softly from behind me, his lips buzzing against the skin of my shoulder. He reaches around and runs his fingertips across my lips. He dips his middle finger into my mouth and I bite down on it gently. “Will you wear that stuff on your mouth? I liked that.”

“The rouge?” I ask around his finger. “Of course, my heart.”

“And your hair down,” Riddick says. He cups my head in his hands and slides his fingers into my hair, feathering his fingers through the strands with a soft rustle. “And the silver stones in your ears.”

The ones that match his eyes. “Gladly.”

“You know what I forgot?” Riddick says ruefully. “Shoes.”

Like the witch’s robe, this gown needs no shoes, but I saw a pair of midnight blue slippers, dotted with crystals, tucked under the chair. “Tirea did not forget.”

“Good. I don’t want you goin’ barefoot. People’d talk.”

“Well, we can’t have that.” Although it would, evidently, be nothing new. I wind my arms around his neck. “Will you help me put the Rift on?”

“Yeah? You sure you want to wear it tonight?” He picks it up off my dresser and fastens it like a brooch on my left shoulder where the straps of the halter meet.

“I promised Vaako.” And I feel naked without my last, best weapon, although I will also wear Hannelore.

“Didn’t know Vaako got a say in your wardrobe.”

“He would have a say in your wardrobe, too, except that we both know you never go anywhere unarmed.”

Riddick shrugs. “Used to, when it was just you an’ me.”

I nod. I’ve had that thought a few times, myself. “But think how dull a party with just the two of us would be.”

Hardy chuckles behind me, his broad, bare chest vibrating against my back. “Don’t sound dull to me.”

“Couple of days, we’ll go to the black sand beach,” Riddick says. “Party on our own. Just the three of us.”

“Riddick says you can’t swim.” Hardy runs his hand up my back. “We’re going to teach you. Once you get comfortable in the water, you’ll love it.”

“Take all the weight off your back,” Riddick adds. He rubs his hand over my belly and frowns. “Why’s your tummy so tight?”

I glance down at myself in surprise. I hadn’t noticed, but now that he’s drawn my attention to it, I feel the tightness under his hand. There’s no pain, though. “Just a cramp, I think. It doesn’t hurt.”

“You got time to see the Old Man before the party.”

Which is my over-protective love’s way of saying that he will delay the party while I see the healer.

“I’m sure I will see him at the party and that he will spare a moment to check me, but there’s nothing to worry about. As I said, it doesn’t hurt.”

Riddick watches me for a moment. Then I feel him ruffle through my mind. I push back firmly.

“You will believe me in this as you will believe me tonight when I say I’m ready to be with you,” I insist.

He lifts a dark eyebrow at me. “I’m gonna spank you ‘til you scream tonight, you ain’t careful.”

“I am content to play that game, or any other you might devise.” I give him his expression straight back. “Besides, we played that game rather recently. I distinctly remember being the winner.”

“How d’you figure?” Riddick asks, pursing his mouth thoughtfully. I can tell that while my moment of defiance may have surprised, and perhaps even angered him, he does not want to fight. He is happy to return to our usual banter. “We both came at the same time, so I’d call that a draw, ‘cept that I wasn’t the one who was so sore she couldn’t sit down afterwards. So maybe I won that one.”

He would like to think so. “How many times did you climax? Only once, I think. How sad for you.”

“You keepin’ score?” he asks.

“Always.”

He shakes his head, leans in and kisses my forehead. “We’ll see how many you can manage tonight,” he says, before he leaves to finish dressing.

Hardy follows him out, but not without a backward glance. I wink at him, hoping he has been titillated by our verbal sparring, rather than discomfited.

 

Hardy does not seem upset, as he accompanies us out of Zibon. And he wears the deep blue leather vest that matches my dress, over a soft white shirt and leather pants. Riddick’s concession to the party is a Dynemal vest, ribbed with glittering black, over his own leather pants. They seem to me under-dressed for a party, and when they each take my arm, letting me walk between them, resplendent in my enchantress’s ball gown, and all eyes turn to me as we enter the pavilion, I realize why. 

They want this to be my moment. 

I glow with pride and smile up at them. My men. My wonderful, complex, exasperating, beloved Furyan men.

Tirea is the first to greet us, glowing in her own gown of gold and cream. She hugs me, then curtseys to Riddick and Hardy.

“Well done, Master Weaver,” Riddick says.

Tirea’s glow turns into a full beam of pride. 

“Tirea, this is the most beautiful dress I’ve ever worn,” I say, turning so the skirt bells out to full effect. 

She catches my hands when I stop turning and pulls me to where her companion stands. “Tell Sirel. He said you’d look better in green.”

I speak with Sirel, who admits that the blue looks very fine, and then to Daray and Sanjula, Gvenne and Leto, Zetany, Tykkas, Avalyn and Cawl, Faz, Aereon and her attentive General, Hewl and Setter and so many others that the pavilion begins to swim and shimmer in a sea of sound and body-heat. Finally, I find Tomoetu standing at my elbow. I fix on his kindly, lined face.

“Master Tomoetu.” I curtsey to him.

“My dear,” he says. “Our Lord Marshal tells me you’re having some cramps. Would you do me the courtesy?” He gestures to a nearby chair and I sink into it. A few chairs are occupied, but most of our guests are standing, talking, laughing. I can’t help but smile at them, despite the dizzying noise and warmth.

Tomoetu sits next to me and places his hand on the font of my belly. A spasm creases his face and he squeezes his eyes closed. When he opens them, he focuses on me. “Nothing to worry about,” he says.

“As I told Riddick. It feels tight, but it doesn’t hurt.” 

“Would it hurt?” Riddick asks from behind me. He was near the serving tables when I last saw him, speaking with Sanjula, so he must have come over when he saw me sit down with Tomoetu. Hardy I don’t need to look for. He’s been at no more than arm’s length all evening, and now he hovers behind Tomoetu’s chair, his eyes on my belly.

“If she was in true labor, yes. But she’s not yet. However, the baby’s turning and Liaden’s body is preparing. I think our first Furyan may decide to greet the world early.”

“Impatience is a trait all Furyans share,” I say fondly, smiling up at my two Furyans.

Riddick’s lips twitch. “Sounds like you better come up with some names quick, then.”

“I thought you’d decided to call her ‘Baby’?” I retort.

“Better’n anything you’ve come up with so far.” Knowing he’s gotten the last word, Riddick saunters back towards the serving tables where Sanjula stands in a group with Daray, Vaako, Halle and Cays.

“Hopefully she will not be quite as insufferable as all Furyans,” I remark to Tomoetu. He chuckles.

“Liaden, you’re fine. Your cervix has not yet begun to efface, so these are just early contractions. But I want you to take it easy. Lie down if you feel any discomfort.” He pats my knee. “Although that doesn’t get you out of dancing at least one dance with me tonight.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

“And if you feel any pain, or have any bleeding, for any reason.” He peers at me a little too closely. “I want you to come and see me.”

“I will,” I promise.

“You will not stay away to avoid a lecture.”

I know what he’s referring to. “I didn’t,” I say gently. “I stayed away because I didn’t want to remind you of the services you performed for Lord Zhylaw. I know you found them . . .” Soul-destroying. “Hurtful,” I finish.

Tomoetu shakes his head. “I should have known. You are happy to martyr yourself, but you’ll go to the ends of the universe to spare another the slightest twinge of discomfort.”

“That’s not true—” I begin.

“Yeah, it is,” Hardy says from over Tomoetu’s shoulder. 

I roll my eyes at him.

Tomoetu pats my knee again. “Your daughter needs a mother, not a martyr.” He turns to look at Hardy. “I trust you will remember that, young man.”

Hardy nods. “I’d never let anything hurt Liaden.”

“Excellent. Now, if you could encourage our beloved Lord Marshal to start the feast, it wouldn’t hurt Liaden to eat.” Hardy nods and moves off toward Riddick. Tomoetu follows him with his eyes for a moment, before taking my hand. “While I heartily approve of you having another protector, and our first Furyan another provider, I cannot endorse any activity that might endanger you or the baby. I forbid you from doing anything that might damage your cervix again, Liaden.”

Has Cays not told him the truth behind my injury? “Hardy is blameless. So, in truth, is Riddick. He was driven to it by the Furyan woman, Shirah. But I have broken her hold over him. I swear to you, Master Tomoetu, it will not happen again.”

“I am relieved to hear it. And I had heard about your campaign against her, but I did not know the truth behind it. I must ask, though, whether Hardy shares our Lord Marshal’s private proclivities?”

Thinking of Hardy’s enthusiasm for our proposed play, I nod. “The Furyans have many things in common. But Hardy is also the most gentle and protective of men. He won’t allow any harm to come to me.”

“So I heard, but perhaps a further word is in order.”

I clasp Tomoetu’s hand in mine. “Please, Master Tomoetu, please be kind. He is so scarred, and he has suffered so much, overcome so much, to be with us. Please don’t say anything that would undo all the progress he’s made.” 

Tomoetu sighs. “Ever the martyr. Liaden, what am I to do with you?”

“Trust me,” I say simply. It seems to be my refrain at the moment. “Or if you cannot, trust that being with Hardy gives me that much more reason to be careful of my own well-being.”

Tomoetu finally nods. “I will speak to him, but I will be kind, and do nothing to undermine your good work. I know full well who the author of Hardy’s improvement is. Just as I have always known who wrought our Lord Marshal’s recovery.”

“Recovery from what?” Riddick asks as he nears. He holds his hand out to me. When I take it, he helps me rise, and tucks my hand into the curve of elbow. Hardy appears at my other side, takes my free hand and mirrors Riddick’s motion. I smile at the two men. Others may fear for my safety, but I have no such fears. Now that Shirah’s malice is contained, I am the safest woman on Furya. I glance around to see if Shirah has accepted our invitation, and find her standing in a small, quiet group with Callum and the Furyan elders. She looks unwell; her perpetual bridal white rumpled and stained. Tirea has not graced her with a party gown and I feel a twinge at the discourtesy. Then I remember her rising from a pool of blood and striking at me with Riddick’s worst memories, and any momentary compassion I feel for her flees.

“He’s referring to your feet, my love,” I say to Riddick, before he inquires further. 

Riddick chuckles. “You do got a way with feet.”

“Sure do.” Hardy curves his hand over mine.

Tomoetu looks from one Furyan to the other before asking, “Hardy, may I speak with you privately?”

Hardy stiffens; I squeeze his forearm. “No,” he says. 

Tomoetu glances at me. I shrug. If Hardy does not wish to speak with the Master Healer, I have no way to compel him. In many ways, Hardy is wilder even than Riddick. Nor do I have any desire to tame him.

“You ready to eat?” Riddick asks me, breaking the awkward moment.

I nod and with a curtsey to Tomoetu, somewhat abbreviated by the large men holding my hands, I let them lead me to the long head table where many of Riddick’s commanders already sit.

Riddick seats me at his right hand; Hardy sits to my right, where a chair has been left open. Whatever fuel Hardy joining us has given the wagging tongues, in formal matters at least, he is accepted as our third. 

When everyone has found a seat, Riddick opens the feast with our toast of many months. “To Furya.” 

Hearing the rejoinder from so many throats, Furyans old and new, fills my heart to bursting. Evidently, it has the same effect on Riddick, because my Collar, always sensitive to his moods, begins pulsing with a soft blue light that does not abate through subsequent toasts, cheers, and songs, which grow more ribald as the Cark flows. There is food, so much food. Sweets and savories. Meats, fish, vegetables and fruits both wild and cultivated. A dozen different kinds of bread in an overflowing cornucopia. Chef and his assistants have outdone themselves. The smell of roasting meat from the pits nearby ensures that everyone eats with good appetite, even me.

Throughout the feast, except when rising to toast or be toasted, Hardy sits quietly at my right. When my hand is free, he takes it, pulls it under the table and laces our fingers together. He squeezes my hand but I do not need this demonstration to know how much he is enjoying himself. His smile, always beautiful, is not rare tonight; it never fades. Once the main meal is eaten and our guests begin to mingle again, Leto and Gvenne drag chairs over to sit across from us. Leto banters with Hardy, and although Hardy’s barks of laughter are drowned in the general roar of conversation, I hear them at some subconscious level. Each peal makes my Collar flare and Riddick squints into the glare when he turns to me. “You enjoyin’ yourself, Li?”

I nod. “Very much, my love.” 

He gives me his unsmile. “Think we should start the dancin’?”

“Yes, please.”

He holds his hand out to me and after I kiss Hardy on the cheek to let him know that I’m going but will return, Riddick leads me to the clear space beyond the serving tables and sweeps me into his arms. “Haven’t learned any of those dances you girls do, but I think I remember how to do this.”

I wind my arms around his neck and let him lead me as he pleases. “Did you learn to dance or does this come as easily as everything else you do with such grace?”

He chuckles. “I don’t remember learning, but I’ve always liked to dance.” He leans in and kisses me. “You really think I’m graceful?”

“I’ve always thought so. You must have seen in my mind how much I enjoy watching you move.”

“Yeah,” he admits. “Part of my animal side.”

“No, my love. Just part of you.” I slide my hand down to cup his cheek. “You are not an animal, not a Beast. You’re just a man. A smart, strong, graceful man who has learned how to survive against all odds.”

“You’re makin’ me sound nothin’ special,” he says, but he’s grinning.

“You are very special. The guests of honor tonight may be Hardy and Leto, but this is your party, my love. We’re here tonight because of you. We’re here tonight to celebrate you.”

Riddick dips me backward and I have an inverted view of Tirea and Sirel, dancing a few steps away. When Riddick brings me back up, it into his kiss. This is not one of the chaste kisses he has visited on me of late, but a deep, wanting kiss that leaves my lips scorched and my core on fire. I sigh with delight. How I’ve missed his searing kisses.

When he releases me, I cup his face in my hands and look up into his argent eyes. “My love,” I breathe.

His parted, reddened lips widen into a smile. “ _Wife_.”

I bury my face in his neck. Take deep breaths of his wonderful, warm, male scent. “I could not enjoy myself more.”

He lifts me off my feet and spins me around. “Me, neither.”

“You going to hog her all night?” Hardy asks as he comes up behind me.

I turn and hold out my upraised palm. Hardy presses his to mine. Riddick clasps my other palm and the three of us move in a circle. 

“Don’t know this dance,” Hardy says.

“Let me show you.” I show him the six basic steps of the janeal. Before we can even begin to put them together, we are surrounded by other couples and trios, imitating our steps. Sanjula coaxes the legionnaires who have been singing rather martial tunes to pick up their beat. She begins calling out the combinations and soon the entire space is full of dancers, whirling through the janeal.

This form of dancing, with so little body contact and few opportunities for kissing, does not hold Riddick’s interest for long, and he gives up his place in our triplet to Zetany, who clasps my hand tightly instead of just pressing her palm to mine and shoots terrified glances at Hardy whenever she has to move in his direction. I follow Riddick with my eyes and watch as he is pulled into a knife-throwing competition with several legionnaires. Seeing Faz and Tykkas among them, I relax, knowing that however dangerous a pastime my love has chosen, he is among friends.

Reassured, I focus on the other two dancers, and showing Zetty she has nothing to fear from my wild Furyan hunter. Hardy does his part by smiling disarmingly at her and eventually she relaxes enough to introduce herself to him during a lull in the dancing.

“Riddick says you’re good with the hellhound. Thought I might take him with me next time I try for _bazzal_ ,” Hardy says, referring to a flightless bird of the foothills. They will give Ctyren quite a chase on their long, clawed legs. “You want to come along?”

Zetty’s piquant little face creases in a mix of terror and gratification, but she nods gamely. I pat her on the shoulder. “If you’ll both excuse me, the dancing’s made me thirsty,” I say.

I make my way back to my seat, rubbing my belly which is aching but not hurting, not really. Hardy takes my elbow before I reach our table and helps me into my seat. “Does it hurt?” he asks anxiously.

I stroke his cheek. “No, my heart. But I really am thirsty.”

He rises from his crouch at my side and goes in search of fresh beakers of nectar. I nod at Zetty who has trailed us anxiously from the dance floor. She rejoins the dancing, making a trio with Cays and her apprentice. 

I take Riddick’s half-finished beaker and sip from it while I wait for Hardy to return. Over the rim, my eyes meet those of my love, who has stopped in his game to watch me. I lower the beaker to blow him a kiss. He nods before turning back to congratulate Faz on a superior throw.

Vaako sinks heavily into the empty chair beside me. “Knife-throwing,” he says.

“You could join him,” I offer, before taking another sip. “Step in the way of any stray blades.”

Vaako glowers at me. “You’re not amusing. Either of you.”

I shouldn’t find his consternation funny. He is so earnest. So I strive not to laugh, although it is an effort. “Look at it this way. He has plenty of weapons readily to hand, should he need to defend himself.”

Hardy returns silently, reaches across me and sets two beakers down on the table. “You’re in my chair,” he growls at Vaako.

Vaako shifts over a seat without demur. I have a moment to wonder how Riddick’s commanders view the Furyan. They left him an open seat, but it was at my side, not Riddick’s. Riddick named Hardy _Warden_ , but the title does not seem to give Hardy any role in the Necromonger hierarchy.

Then Hardy sits down in the vacated chair, puts his arm around my shoulders, and makes his position completely clear. “Riddick says you called Liaden a whore.”

Vaako cuts his eyes at me before answering. “A misunderstanding,” he says.

Hardy nods. Then he flicks two fingers at Vaako. “Make sure you understand this. You insult Liaden again, and it’ll be you we cook in those pits.” He tips his head at the still-smoking ovens. “And I’ll join Liaden in eating you.”

Vaako nearly falls out of his chair in affront. He recovers, rises stiffly and bows to both of us. “Lady Marshal. Warden.”

“Commander Vaako,” I manage through my fingers as I try to stifle a burst of very unseemly laughter.

Hardy doesn’t say anything in parting, just watches Vaako go with very dark eyes. He slides his hand up my neck and coaxes my head down onto his shoulder. I turn my face into his neck and give in to my inappropriate mirth. Courtesy is evidently not the hallmark of the First Wife’s station. I blame it on the baby hormones. When my giggling dies down, I nip the warm, smooth column against my lips.

“You are a fearsome man,” I say into his skin. I would whisper but he’d never heard me over the noise of the party, and I’m confident that even at normal volume, no one else will hear, either.

He strokes my hair. “No one insults you. Don’t care who he thinks he is. He don’t get to talk to you like that. Especially not for something we made you do.”

I slide my hand across his chest, appreciating the fine fabrics of his shirt and tooled vest under my fingers, then wrap my arm around his neck so I can appreciate the finer fabric of his skin. “Vaako and I have not always been the best of friends. I did kill his companion, which he has had difficulty forgiving.”

“Riddick told me. He said it was self-defense.”

“Yes, but that matters little in the face of Vaako’s grief.”

Hardy grumbles. “Still don’t care. You haven’t done anything wrong. No one gets to blame you for it.”

“I could have said no.” When Hardy rears back to look into my eyes, I stroke his nape. “I’m very glad I didn’t. But I recognize that I made a choice, and others might criticize me for it. I am content to defend my choice, my heart, but it is kind of you defend it for me. Although threatening to _eat_ my critics is perhaps somewhat extreme.”

Hardy chuckles. “Maybe,” he allows.

“Would you like to return to dancing, my fearsome defender?”

“Yeah, in a minute. I like holding you.”

I like being held. I cuddle close to him and let his protectiveness envelop me like a soft fur.


	31. Chapter 31

Suitably buoyed by two beakers of nectar, we return to dancing. I give Tomoetu the dance I promised him, which we dance to Furyan music, playing from a lens set on a serving table. 

“Their music’s pleasing,” Tomoetu remarks to me as he leads me slowly through steps I don’t know but are easy enough to pick up.

“There’s a great deal of it in their archives.”

“Is that what you did while we slept away the trip?”

I nod. “And gardened. And planned.” I glance around. “This is everything I hoped for.”

“It is a wonder, and a testament to your planning. But I fear it might have come too easily, my dear. Conquest usually comes at a higher cost.”

If he only knew what it has cost Riddick, and me. I give him a gentle smile. “We do not come to conquer. Nor do I believe Furya can be conquered. It is Furya who will shape us. We are already changing. Do you not see it?”

“Indeed, I do. What will Furya change you into, Liaden?”

My smile broadens. That, at least, I already know. “Riddick and Hardy will not be my daughter’s only providers. I will also hunt for her, and when she is old enough, teach her to hunt for herself.”

“Not all of us can become hunters,” Tomoetu observes.

“Not all Necromongers became soldiers, yet there was a place for everyone within the Legion Vast. So will there be here. We will need hunters, gatherers, sowers, reapers, builders and, of course, healers.”

Tomoetu gives a small chuckle and I hope it is not because the dancing is too much for him. “We need mothers, Liaden. Most of all. The Necromonger Way will give way to the Furyan Way in a generation. Perhaps less. What you teach your daughter will be our legacy. I hope you teach her kindness.”

“I intend to. And love, Master Tomoetu, most of all. That is what brought me to Furya. That is what keeps me here. That is what I intend to teach her.”

Tomoetu pats my cheek. “That is a fine legacy, my dear.”

Tomoetu tires more quickly even than I, and when I notice his breath truly growing short, I drag him from the dance floor and over to the serving tables where I ply him with Cark, which may not be medicinal but does at least dilate the blood vessels.

As I sip from my own beaker of rowela juice, I meet a pair of black eyes across the serving table. The rabid Furyan. He does not try to approach me, which shows some small degree of intelligence, although I find it unfortunate, since it would give me an excuse to stab him. I could blame it on the baby hormones. 

He takes a step back from the table and bows to me.

“Booth.” I acknowledge him with a tip of my head.

He nods towards the dancers. “Dance with me?”

I consider refusing. I don’t want to be in touching distance of him. But it is a party, and he is our guest, and there is no reason to be rude. Also, moving back onto the dance floor would put me closer to Hardy, who is dancing with Gvenne and Leto. There is comfort in that.

I look back to Booth and nod.

He rounds the serving table and extends his hand. I take it reluctantly. His skin is hot and dry, like a fever-victim’s and I wonder for a moment if he truly is rabid. Surely Tomoetu can inoculate me if he bites. Or spits. 

If he does either, I will have an excuse to stab him.

He leads me into a clear space, nowhere near Hardy, or Riddick, who is standing among the knife-throwers, showing them his recurved blades, while Vaako hovers a like a black cloud a few meters away. I try not to smile at his discomfort as I turn to Booth and raise my hands so he can put his palms against mine, the most I can stand touching him.

He grabs one of my hands, yanks to pull me off-balance and twists my arm up behind my back as he spins me around. I reach for Hannelore, but he’s faster than I am and yanks my blade out of her sheath. He pushes her point against my bare belly and I freeze. 

“Don’t,” I rasp, my throat gone dry with fear.

“Shut up,” he growls in my ear.

A ripple of silence and suspended motion spreads around us, as the other dancers notice Booth’s hold on me. When the circle of silence hits the seating area, Greer rises from the table where he was sitting by himself. He turns to the neighbouring table, where Shirah and Callum sit with their heads together, holding hands and speaking quietly to each other.

Greer draws a small plasma caster out of his belt and shoots Callum in the heart.

Callum blinks once, staring down at the blackened ruin of his chest. Then he topples off his chair, tugging Shirah to the side as his hand unwinds from hers.

Greer is on her in an instant, grabbing her by her multitude of braids and shoving the plasma caster under her chin. He turns so she’s shielding him and speaks to Riddick over her shoulder.

“Fuckin’ move, I’ll kill them both,” Greer says.

Riddick stands in the middle of the knife-throwers, his weapons still in his hands. His eyes flick to me, down to my belly where I can feel a hot trickle from Hannelore’s edge, then back to Greer. 

“Take Shirah,” Riddick says. “I won’t stop you.”

I start to protest. He must not give anyone, not even Shirah, to that monster. But Booth feels the rising tension that precedes my response and digs Hannelore’s edge further into my belly. The trickle becomes a tide and from my right, where Hardy has pushed through the silent, still crowd, I hear his agonized growl. “Liaden, stop moving.”

I nod. I cannot risk our baby. Not even to spare Shirah from Greer.

“You think I’m stupid?” Greer sneers at Riddick. “Soon as I leave here with her, you’ll be after me. You say you don’t want to be Furyor, but we both know that’s a fuckin’ lie. You can’t fight it.”

“She’s got no more hold on me,” Riddick says. “Take her. Walk out of here. I’ll let you.” He points at Booth without tearing his fixed, burning gaze away from Greer. “Just tell your fuckin’ mutt to let Liaden go.”

Greer bares his teeth and shakes his head. Perhaps I was wrong about who the rabid one was. “She comes with me. Insurance. See her bleeding? I see you, hear you, smell you, I so much as think you’re behind me, I give him the nod. He’ll gut her and watch that thing inside her flop around on the ground while she bleeds out—”

Hardy howls, a pure animal roar of fear and pain. I see him tense to spring and hold a hand out to stop him. _Please Xia, restrain him_ , I pray. No matter how fast my Furyan hunter is, Booth will be faster. 

Cays and Gvenne throw their arms around Hardy. Leto, coming up behind him, wraps him in a headlock. The three of them hold him as he struggles.

“Leash your own fuckin’ mutt,” Greer says to Riddick. “You stay clear. Once I’m Furyor, I’ll be back to take your chair. Then you can have your fat bitch back. Whatever Booth’s left of her.”

Riddick turns his head and meets my eyes. His brow furrows and his lips tighten with effort. _He won’t kill you. Not as long as he needs you. You stay alive. Whatever happens. We’ll come for you._

I nod.

_I love you, wife_ , he says into my mind.

I bite my lips to keep my eyes from tearing. He would tell me now.

“Booth, go,” Greer says. He begins backing through the tables, toward the edge of the pavilion, with its back to the taruut fields. At Riddick’s nod, legionnaires, technicians, courtiers, Furyans new and old, clear a path for the monster and his captive. 

Booth, either more confident that no one will come at his back while he holds me, or uncaring in his insanity, shoves me around and marches me in the same direction. 

I hear the scuffle behind us as Hardy tries to break free. _Please, fierce Xia, hold him still._ I have no wish to see his chest cratered by Greer’s fearsome weapon. _There will be other chances, my heart,_ I think, praying Xia will let him hear my thoughts as he wished. _Wait for the chance._

And to make the chance, pretending to stumble, I hold my left hand out for balance and shake my wrist, so the light catches on the locator I wear, the matched set with my Collar and wedding ring.

 

Out past the pavilion, on the edge of the fields, Riddick’s hover bike sits, left after our wild ride. Forgotten as we arranged flowers and kissed and napped. Or perhaps Riddick left it there purposefully, intending another ride after the party. How sweet would that have been? A midnight ride in my enchantress’s ballgown astride a mechanized broom.

It seems, then, the ultimate insult to have Greer shove Shirah onto the seat, mount behind her, grab the handles and gun the engine so the bike rises on a spume of black ash. Booth loads me on with none of the ceremony or gentleness of my earlier embarkation. He crowds on behind me, crushing me against Greer’s armored back. The bike wobbles as Booth seats himself and I have a moment’s hope that we will overload the bike and it will fail to fly.

But Riddick has built too well. The bike stabilizes after that single wobble and when Greer opens the throttle, the bike unleashes its signature roar, soaring over the taruut field. 

We fly over the fields, past the shock wall, to the west, away from the Anzoa and over the grave fields. I have time as we rumble over the dark jungle to feel the wound in my belly as I press my waistband to it. It is not deep; Hannelore has not pierced my abdominal wall. But the cut in my stretched skin gapes and resists my efforts to staunch it. Blood soaks my skirt and I hope it is all of my blood that will stain my clothing tonight. 

I heard what Greer said to Riddick; I know what Booth will do to me when we land. 

I take deep breaths as I press the fabric against my belly, centering myself. I must not fight. I must not give them a reason to kill me, or hurt the baby. My husband and lord commanded me to survive, and I will. I have so much to live for. I hold each bright moment of the party tonight at the front of my thoughts. Furya as I hoped for. I will not let hatred or madness take that away from me.

I banish fear with each deep breath. Pain passes, I promised Hardy. However much Booth hurts me, I will heal. There is nothing to fear but fear itself.

But I find myself holding my breath, my chest and belly clenching, whenever Booth presses against my back. The muscles of my thighs spasm constantly; my skin shivers. I do not want his hands on me, his hot breath in my ear, his repellent member inside me. 

I remind myself of what my men have suffered. Hardy, at the mercy of that terrible tube. How brave he must have been to climb into that chair, day after day, knowing what awaited him. The struggle and the humiliation and the shame. And Riddick, whose tormentors were all too human. His memories were blurred, perhaps deliberately, but I felt his pain. I know he was violated. They both recovered, with time and care. 

I will recover, too. But sweet Xia, I don’t want to. There must be some way to keep him off me. I only have to think. I only have to use what I know of men and what drives them. Surely with all of the experience I’ve had lately trying to divine the desires and motivations of my two impossible Furyan lovers, I can come up with some strategy to keep Booth from raping me.

We land a short distance from the grave fields, in an unprepossessing patch of jungle. I have a brief hope that Greer is lost, but that hope fades when I see the cave mouth.

I do not have to go into the cave to know it. I recognize it instantly from Riddick’s dream. I didn’t realize it was a real place. The place where the Hunt ends, and the Furyor is crowned.

I pray that there is no real pool of blood. 

Greer is first off the bike. He drags Shirah off behind him and thrusts her roughly toward the cave mouth.

“Run,” he says to her. “You want me to chase you.”

Shirah stumbles a few steps, then pulls herself up, hugging her dignity as she hugs her arms. “You will never be the Furyor. No matter what you do to me. I will not call the Hunt and you will never be the Victor.”

Greer back-hands her viciously, and I hear the crack of bone. I start off the bike, but Booth wraps his arm around my middle and holds me on the seat. He thrusts himself against my backside, aroused by the violence, and I swallow hard to keep from vomiting.

Shirah staggers and cups her cheek, but regains her feet and glares defiantly at Greer. I want to scream at her. Her bravery is admirable, but idiotic. She’s only goading him to hurt her. He’s neither stupid nor mad enough to kill her, and that is her only hope of escaping unscathed. She should be placating him, playing to his vanity. Lulling him into complacency so she can create the chance to attack.

With that in mind, I reach back and stroke Booth’s greasy head. “Will you let me watch?” I ask him. “I would give a great deal to see her finally brought low.”

Booth growls something without recognizable words but his excitement at the idea is all too evident. Shirah gapes at me. “You, you—”

“I warned you my hand would be raised against you,” I say, while I meet her horrified gaze and beg her silently to think, think, of our confrontation in the cave and remember the weapon I used against her. The weapon I still carry.

“You bitch,” she spits. There is no comprehension in her eyes. She looks around in despair, then turns and runs into the cave. Greer follows her at a measured pace.

I have to control my own growl. Clearly, I will have to do the thinking for both of us. “Can we go watch?” I ask the rabid monster panting against my back. I need to be free of his hold. The Rift takes a moment to use – to break the jem and unleash the Void. Nor can I hold the Rift for long. I must be free, but at close range, to kill them both with it. I have to be _in_ the cave.

“Yeah,” Booth grunts. He climbs off the bike, still holding Hannelore flat against my belly. Rabid, but wiley, this monster. He drags me off after him and pushes me toward the cave mouth.

A high scream reverberates from the cave, and tells me that Greer has caught his prey. Shirah screams again and this time it is Riddick’s name. I squeeze my eyes closed for a moment. Whatever her sins, I would never wish this form of penance on her. 

Booth shoves me. Off-balance, I stumble, landing heavily on my knees.

Booth grabs my hair and pushes me forward onto my hands. “Can watch next time,” he growls. He scrabbles at the waistband of my skirt, but the silk stretches instead of tearing, puliing tight across my belly and hips. I feel a stab of pain ripple across my belly that has nothing to do with the knife still pressed to my side. 

I grip the Furyan dirt with both hands. Please, not now.

Wetness sluices down my thighs, soaking the blood-crusted silk. Booth’s hand, groping under my skirt when he fails to tear it away, finds the slickness and he chortles. “Whore. You want this.”

Actually, I’m very much against the notion of sex at the moment. It got me in this situation in the first place, and I find myself resenting that a huge amount. Then I can think of nothing but the almighty need to _push_ ; it gathers my every thought in its undeniable fist. I pant, not with desire, and grip the ground to steady myself until the contraction passes. 

I feel cool air on my calves and thighs as Booth finally succeeds in pulling up my skirts. I hear him tugging at his own clothes, then his hand returns to my hair to push my face down into the flattened grass as he positions himself behind me. Despairing, I reach for the Rift. I cannot save Shirah, whose screams still ring from the stone mouth before me. But I can save my baby and myself.

There’s yank on my hair that makes me scream and then the hot, cruel weight of Booth’s body behind me is gone. I sprawl in the grass for a moment, my eyes filled with tears from the pain in my scalp, and the tearing cramp in my belly, and the burning of my side where Hannelore’s edge has caught me. I shake my head to clear my eyes, toss away my tangled hair and lift my head from the grass.

Two meters away, two Furyans grapple. Muscles bulge under caramel skin. A few black dreadlocks lie on the ground, torn from Booth’s head. The man on top of Booth grasps a handful of others as he pins the rabid Furyan to the ground and pounds his fist into Booth’s mouth. Blood flies from Booth’s face, but also from the strong golden back of my savior, whom Booth stabs repeatedly with my knife.

Hardy makes no sound. Not in his approach, not in his attack. Silent, Hardy straddles Booth and beats his face to a bloody, unrecognizable pulp, even while Booth drives Hannelore again and again into Hardy’s unarmored, unprotected back.

I crawl to them, clutching at my belly as another contraction rolls over me. The men, locked in their battle, do not react when I grasp Booth’s bloody wrist and wrench Hannelore out of his grasp. She is my knife; she comes readily to my hand. My grip on her is sure, even though her hilt is covered in blood. I push Hardy to the side, registering that neither man resists me. Hardy collapses limply off the other Furyan. 

I climb onto Booth’s prone body, raise Hannelore over my head in both hands and drive her into his heart.

He gasps, spits blood in a fountain up at my face. I turn my head to the side and feel that hot wetness hit my cheek. His hand scrabbles, grasping at my shoulder and arm, pulling at my silk sleeve, but there is no strength left in his grip. I push his hand aside and lean over him, clutching my belly, my breastbone pressing the knife deeper into his body.

“Xia waits for you,” I hiss to him. I already feel the heat of the fourth _di’an_ mark spreading across my back. “And fierce Xia is not kind.”

I leave Hannelore quivering with the last beats of his heart and crawl off him to where Hardy lies.

My lover lies on his back, one knee up, his arms outstretched. The dirt under him is dark with blood. The killing calm drains out of me and fear closes its ice-cold fingers around my heart.

“Hardy?”

He looks up at me. “Tell me I was in time.”

“My heart.” I cup his cheek with my bloody hand. “Of course you were. Everything’s fine now.” Except the blood soaking the dirt beneath him.

He nods and his eyes slowly close.

“Hardy?!” I grab him, lifting his whole torso off the ground with a strength I should not have. I pull him tight against my chest. I yank until I finally tear a handful of fabric off my skirt and wad it into the wounds in his back. “Hardy!” I hiss into his face to rouse him, all the noise I can make around another contraction.

His eyelids flutter but his eyes are glazing, glazing, the light in them dying, and I feel the beat of the great heart pressed against my breast stutter and stop.

“No!” I slump over him, hampered by my belly, but finally manage to lie him flat. I ball my fists and smash them into his chest. His body jolts. His head lolls back. His chest does not rise. There is only silence.

I push myself up onto my knees, clutching my belly, ball my hands and smash them into his chest again. I cannot see through my tears but I know where that great, still heart is. “Look at me!”

I feel hands on my shoulders but I shake them off. I pound that broad chest with my fists over and over. “You promised me a son!” I scream until my voice gives out, and then sag over him, clutching at his shoulders, still whimpering, “You promised me a son . . .”

The chest under me heaves. A weak hand grasps at my wrists. “How’m I gonna give you a son . . . if you break all my ribs?”

I get one arm under his neck, pull him up against me and hold him fiercely to my breast, while I press my other hand against the wounds in his back.

Someone reaches around me and presses their hand over mine. Vaako leans over my shoulder. “Riddick’s right behind me.”

“Get Tomoetu.” His name turns into a hiss as another contraction, the strongest yet, hits me. I pant through it. Vaako draws back, looking more alarmed by the noises I am making than the man bleeding in my arms.

“Liaden?” Vaako asks.

“Get Tomoetu!” I rasp. “Tell Riddick, Greer has Shirah in the cave.”

Vaako nods. “He knows. He’s coming.”

“I’m here,” Riddick says, kneeling at my other side. “I’m here, Li.” He puts his arms around me. “I’ve got you. Let him go.” He grunts as he tries to lift our combined weight. “I can only carry one of you.”

“Carry him.” I push Hardy into Riddick’s arms, trying to maintain pressure on his wounds. “I can walk.” We fumble for a moment, then Riddick manages to get his arms around Hardy.

I rise to follow him and another contraction immediately proves me a liar. It drives me down onto one knee, clutching my belly, panting through clenched teeth.

“Fuck, Li, now?” Riddick asks, and for only the third time in all our days together, I hear fear in his voice. 

“Yes, now,” I hiss. “She’s _your_ daughter. Where else would she be born but on a goddamn battlefield!”

Riddick laughs, a laugh that holds far more hysteria than humor.

“What do I do?” Vaako asks, reaching for my belly.

I slap his hands away. “Keep your unsterilized hands away from me, is what you do. And get Tomoetu!”

“Back the fuck up is what you do,” Greer drawls. He emerges from the darkness of the cave’s entrance. He holds Shirah by the throat, his fingers sunk deep into her flesh, hauling her against his chest as she stumbles. Her face is blood-smeared, tear-streaked. Similar fluids stain her bare thighs. 

Greer stops a few meters from us. “Riddick, you put him down. Let him bleed out. Booth was my wing-man for five fucking years.”

“Then I am pleased to have deprived you of his company,” I hiss. “If you look for his killer, look here.”

Greer sneers at me over Shirah’s shoulder and tugs at the plasma caster he has holstered on his other hip with his free hand, but he cannot draw it without loosening his grip on Shirah. “I’m Furyor now,” he barks. “So you all do what I say. You, cunt, stay right where you are. You die first. Riddick, after I kill your whore, you and me are going to settle this and if any of you move, this bitch dies—“ 

A bronzed arm appears over Greer’s shoulder. Silver flashes, and then a spray of red. Shirah stumbles out of Greer’s loosening grip. Hands grasping at his neck in a futile effort to stop the arterial spray, Greer half-turns towards someone standing behind him. His mouth drops in shock.

A bloodied, bronzed hand reaches out of the shadows around the cave mouth. It shoves hard against Greer’s chest, hastening his collapse. As Greer crumples to the ground, Elkie steps into the moonlight. She looks down at the man at her feet disdainfully.

“You first, you rapist motherfucker,” Elkie says softly.

She looks up; her eyes catch the faint light and flare into flame. “Riddick,” she says, her voice hard. Her hand flexes around the bloody knife.

Riddick adjusts Hardy’s limp, but, please Xia, not dead weight against his chest. “You keep what you kill.”

“Furyor,” Vaako adds, and I realize though a haze of pain what has happened.

Elkie’s red gaze bores into Riddick’s for a moment. Then she nods. “Take care of my girl. I’ll take care of this one.” She nods at Shirah, who stands shivering, staring down at Greer’s body, her face blank.

Vaako puts his arm around me, pulls my arm over his shoulder, and bent nearly double with the force of the contractions that tear through me, we stumble after Riddick to where their skimmer waits.

 

I lie in our bed, propped on my elbow, warmed by the weight of the man lying behind me, and watch my husband. He stands at the great lens, looking out over the dunes, the beach, the distant waves, silvered by the mid-morning sun. He tilts the bundle in his arms, and points out something moving along the sand. Since her cloudy-blue newborn eyes can barely see more than ten centimeters, I doubt very much she follows his hand. But she gurgles up at her father anyway.

Behind me, Hardy gives a weak chuckle. “He knows she can barely see his face, right?”

“Doubtless. Riddick, is that – is it an antyon on the beach?” I ask, recognizing the horned shape.

“Yeah. Must have swum back in around the shock wall. Patrol’ll get it. Here they come.”

He turns away as a skimmer shoots across the dunes on a cushion of black ash. He climbs onto the bed, settles the small, swaddled bundle of our child between us. Hardy’s arm tightens around my waist, then his fingers walk across the short space to rest on the baby’s blankets.

Riddick takes one tiny, curled fist between his fingers. He slides his pinkie into the baby’s fist and smiles when it tightens. “She’s gonna be a tiger.”

“Like her mother,” Hardy grunts into my shoulder. “I may never be able to take another deep breath.”

I cracked three of his ribs, which Tomoetu has healed, but doubtless they are still very sore. “I will not apologize,” I say. “You were thinking the unthinkable.”

“Wasn’t thinking much of anything,” Hardy protests.

“You were thinking of leaving before we had a future together.”

Hardy chuckles shallowly. “That is unthinkable.”

“Then don’t dare ever think it again.” I slide down to cradle my head on my elbow. I should be tired. The birth was the worst pain I’ve ever experienced. I was sure the baby was tearing apart my very bones. And by the time we reached Zibon, the birth was so far advanced that Cays could do little more than hold my hand and tell me to push, while Tomoetu worked on a groaning, cursing Hardy on the other couch.

But at least he wasn’t silent. 

I feel battered, probably much like Hardy’s ribs. But I feel whole. In a way that I have not felt during my entire pregnancy. My family is here, around me. In our bed. In my heart. I look forward to giving Hardy a son someday, but I hope I do not conceive immediately. I already feel like my body is my own again. It is s feeling I would like to savor for a while.

I stretch, flex my legs and feel the long muscles in my thighs and calves contract. I look forward to running again, without the burden of a pendulous belly. To hunting through Furya’s jungles, side-by-side with my men. Some day, side-by-side with my daughter, the little tigress who lies between us.

“We could call her Tiger,” I say, looking up at Riddick, who can barely tear his gaze away from the baby long enough to meet my eyes. “Since we have no other name for her.” 

“Tiger’s a good name,” Hardy says. I cannot tell whether he’s joking; I hope he is. “Gimme Tiger.”

Riddick picks up the bundle of baby, handling her expertly even though she’s only a few hours old, but he’s had the most practice, since he’s barely put her down since she was born. He turns her over and settles her on Hardy’s chest. Riddick stretches out next to me, reaches across me and cups his hand over the baby’s swaddled bottom, keeping her secure. She yawns a tiny yawn and her swollen eyes squint shut. Where Riddick’s done nothing but hold her and show her things she cannot possibly see, she’s done nothing but yawn, root around ineffectually at my breast, and sleep thus far. I hope this does not set a precedent.

“You can call Number Two Tiger if you want,” Riddick says. He brushes a strand of hair back behind my ear and smiles down into my eyes.

“You’re assuming there will be a Number Two,” I say, smiling back at him. The baby is very cute, if small, and red, and wrinkly. Her cuteness is not an inducement to endure pregnancy and childbirth again, though. At least not anytime soon. 

“There will,” Riddick says with great certainty. “And a Three and a Four. Didn’t Hardy tell you?”

I glance at the Furyan holding my baby. He’s mostly asleep: his eyes closed, his face relaxed, but he still wears his beautiful smile.

“No. What has Hardy not told me?” I ask.

Hardy’s smile widens, but he doesn’t answer.

“That dream he had,” Riddick says. “Of us walking on the beach? Didn’t he mention you were pregnant again?”

“No, he definitely did not mention that.”

“You were,” Hardy whispers. “Huge. Twice the size you were with Tiger. Beautiful.”

A whale. A land whale. Well-known for their beauty. “That I very much doubt.”

“Twins,” Riddick says sagely. “Boy and a girl.”

I will castrate both of them first. With my teeth. “Really. And how do you know this?”

“I’m the Lord Marshal. I just know.”

They’re both insane. I settle back into the pillows and close my eyes. “Then you’d better start working on more names, since you can’t even name this one,” I grumble.

Riddick slides his arm under me and settles me on his shoulder, where I can hear the beat of his great heart. A noise I will never tire of hearing. He kisses the tip of my nose. “Jacalyn,” he whispers to me. I’m not sure I’ve ever heard him sound so happy, or so content. “But we’re gonna call her Jack.”

[End]


End file.
